HEART  HISTORIES, 


SPIRIT  LONGINGS,  ETC, 


By'L.  B.  F. 


PUBLISHED  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 

MALONE,  K  Y. 

AND 

139  EIGHTH  ST.,  NEW  YORK. 
1877. 


CHARLES  P.  SOMERBT, 

PRINTER, 
139  Eighth  Street,  N   Y. 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  COUNTRY— FEELINGS   AND 
FANCIES. 

Go,  little  book;  yet  fear  I  for  theo,  lest  BO  small  and  frail  a  craft, 
when  launched  upon  a  doubtful  sea,  should  ride  the  sport  of  the 
rough  winds  and  waves,  till  sunk  beneath  the  billows. 

May  none  but  gentle  gales  and  zephyrs  bland  waft  thee  upon  thy 
untried  way  shouldst  thou  once  venture  from  the  safer  shore. 

Dedicated  to  my  Aunt  Eunice  Conant,  as  a  mark  of  esteem 
and  gratitude. 

Hoping  in  God's  kind  help,  I  venture  forth. 


CONTENTS. 


Dedication,  etc.,  7 

Lines  on  Publishing  Early  Pieces,  9 

Burning  of  St.  Eustaclie,  Canada,  11 

A  Prologue,  18 

Alter  News  of  Lafayette's  Death,  19 

Lake  Champlain,  20 

Our  Classic  Green,  21 

The  Backsliding  Drunkard,  22 

Her  Jewels,  23 

To  the  Same,  23 

Musings,  24 

Old  Pickwaket,  26 

To  a  Schoolmate,  30 

Answer,  30 

Love,  31 

I'll  Take  it  Back,  32 

Words    of    a  Brother   Dying    at 

Sea,  33 

V  Sheridan,  35 
'  To ,  38 

En  y  and  Jealousy,  40 

Death's  Flowers,  42, 

The  Steamship  President,  45 

My  Grandfather,  48 

To  the   Memory  of  Little    George 

R 8f  50 

The  Daughter  to  Her  Father,  51 
To  a  Very  Little  Child,  52 

To  A.  A ,  53 

To ,  54 

The  Presented  Quilt,  5G 

Elder  Safford,  5T 

Oh,  Wilt  Thou  Ever  Think,  58 

To  My  Child,  60 

To  My  Little  Mary.  62 

For  the  Bride,  63 

A  Mother's  Address  to  Her  Child,  65 

To    the   Memory  of    Elizabeth 

W ,  66 

On  the  Receipt  of  Wedding  Cake,  67 
On  the  Death  of  a  Deceased  Brother's 
Friend,  68 


A  Ballad  of  the  Olden  Time,  70 

Spring,  71 

My  Bible,  71 

A  New  Year's  Ditty,  72 

Tin-  Despondent  Mother's  Prayer,  74 

A  Song  for  the  Democracy,  75 

After  Election,  Same  Year,  78 

To  Ireland,  80 

Enna  and  Willio,  81 

The  Birth  of  Slander,  34 

The  Twin  Sister's  Love  and  Friend- 
ship, 86 

Ladies'  Speaking,  88 

Jealousy,  89  > 

Sunset,  91 

Our  Little  River   92 

The  Hope  of  Oppressed  Ireland,  93 

Ma  Wouldn't  Let  Me  Out,  94 

A  Dying  Aged  Lady,  95 

The  Little  Child-Flower,  95 

Boat  Song,  96 

Forgive  and  Forget,  97 
Affliction,  98 
I  Thought,  etc.,  99 
Poor  Little  Thing,  100 

For  Mr.  and  Mrs.  S ,  102 

For  the  One  Man,  etc.,  103 

To  the  Ladies,  103 

A  Child's  Idea,  104 

The  Mexican  War,  105 

A  Word  for  Thanksgiving,  112 

Written  for  M H ,  113 

Fourth  of  July,  116 
The  Dying  One's  Adieu,  117 
A  Song  ot  Solitude,  119 
Aspirings,  121, 
Christian,  123 

For  Mrs.  McP ,  124 

Kelative  to  the  Death  of  Little 

Sarah,  126 

For  the  Sorrowing  Wife,  128 
To ,  130 


On  an  Invitation  to  a  Festival,  130 

ToMr.H— th,  131 

Our  Cottage  in  Winter,  132 

A  Puff,  133 

We  Know  so  Little  of  Eternity,  134 

Farewell,  Old  Church,  135 

New  Church  Dedication,  136 

Lines   Suggested  by  a  V  sit  to 

Prisoner,  138 

Lines  Relative  to  the  Same,  140 
How  Much  I  Sin,  142 
God  Pity  the  Poor,  143 
Snowing,  144 
Our  Canary,  146 
Death  of  Birdie  Canary,  143 
My  Country  Home,  150 
To  a  Sister,  152 
To  the  Sea,  153 
The  Black-sealed  Letter,  155 
My  Grandmother,  156 
Our  Little  May,  158 
Plain  Work,  159 
On  the  Death  of  Wm.  Safford,  162 


Sorrow's  Music  Strains,  214 

"She  is  Not  Dead,  but  Sleepeth,"  215 

The  Dying  Pauper's  Adieu,  216 

To  My  Brown-eyed  One,  219 

Letter  to  Margaret  Verne,  220 

A  Response  to  Margaret  Verne,  222 

The  Beautiful  Coquette,  224 
l    To  the  "  Lounger,"  225 

A  Wish  for  the  "  Lounger,"  226 

Friendship,  227 

They  Think  Me  Cold,  228 

Charley  Flinn,  229 

Juliet,  231 

Our  Cottage  in  Summer,  233 

Kindly  Words,  235 

Lovo  and  the  Maiden,  236 

Etty  Vale,  237 

The  Departed  Mother,  239 

The  Lost  Sheep,  240    , 

Kitty  LeGrave,  241 

In  a  Little  Cottage,  242 

Question  and  Answer,  243 

The  Swan  in  the  Park,  244 
V  The  Vision,  245 
/>  wv 


X I  n    M'emoryof    My   Brother^  When  Evening"?  uts,  etc.,  249 
William,  166  Our  Anna,  251 

Father   Have    You    no    Hope    for 
Me  ?  168 

I  Long  to  Go  Home,  1 71 


A  Star  in  the  North,  253 
Sabbath  Evening,  '254 
Sunset,  255 


I  Stood  Beside  His  Pillowed  Head,  1 73    The  Dying  One,  256 


If  Hope,  etc.,  174 

Come  To  Me,  Brother,  175 

Sorrow,  176 
V  He'll  Know  Me,  177 

Mary,  Jesus'  Mother,  183 

Our  Babe,  185 

Alma's  Flood,  187 

The  Woods,  188 

A  Little  Piece  of  Prose,  189 

The  Rainbow,  191 

Poetry— What  Is  It?  192 

When  the  Scul,  193 

The  Word  "  Mother,"  194 

Have  We  Flowers,  194 

Is  There  Not  Room?  195 

Love — Awake  My  Soul,  etc.,  196 
,  My  Love's  Return,  197 
-   Let  the  Little  Star  Shine,  198 

The  Sick  Child,  200 

Our  Household  Lambs,  201 

Our  Youngest  Cherub,  201 

Our  Sunbeam,  202 

The  Child-dream,  203 

Another  Baby  Hhyme,  205 

Mamma,  Is  It  Jesus  Smiling?  205 

The  Child's  Wish  to  Pray,  206 

I  Sat  Me  Down  Weeping,  207 

A  Child's  Prayer,  208 

A  Beggar's  Petition,  209 

Cornelia,  210 

Our  Darlings,  211 


Smiles,  257 
The  Soul's  Triumph,  253 
Willie  Wooer,  261 
A  Song  of  the  Sea,  262 
Beautiful  Bird,  264 
The  Maiden's  Confession,  265 
The  Song  I  Love,  267 
Hearth  and  Home,  268 
Pleadings,  269 
A  Hint  to  Husbands,  271 
Bird  in  Central  Park,  273 
Back  to  Old  England,  274 
'Tis  Past,  275 
Two  Brothers,  277 
A  Call  to  Democrats,  279 
An  Appeal  to  Freemen,  280 
A  Cry  for  Peace,  281 
Governor  Seymour,  283 
Rappahannock,  285 
Joseph  and  F.  D.  Flanders,  288 
A  Leader  of  the  Republican  Party,  290 
How  Canst  Thou,  Sun,  292 
A  Prayer,  293 
Where  Are  They,  295 
An  Instance  of  Inhumanity,  296 
Vallandigham,  299 
Peace,  301 

Vallandigham  Exiled,  302 
Lines  Referring  to  Mrs.  Vallandig- 
ham, 305 
My  Country,  307 


One  of  the  Fruits  of  Battle,  308  The  Wintry  Winds,  410 

Pestilence,  310  Our  Sailor  Boy,  411 

The  Old  Negro's  Lament,  312  The  Lost  One,  414 

Asking    Pardon    for   Jefferson^'m  Growing: Old,  415 


Davis,  313 

To  Thee,  Hibernia,  315 
To  England,  317 
My  Country,  After  the  Veto,  319 
Another  Note  of  Joy,  321       '•  - 
To  France,  322 
To  Editress  Nellie,  323 
We  Shall  Meet  Again,  324 
A  Lit  tie  Prayer  for  a  Great  Good,   326 
Sunday,  32T 
A  Little   Word    for    "Woman's 

Rights,"  328 

I've  Changed  My  Mind,  329 
A  Dialogue  in  a  Nutshell,  331 
Sunday  Musings,  333 
The  Poor  ManTs  Grave,  334 
God's  Voice  in  Nature,  335 
The  Two,  337 
Mary,  The  Holy,  340 
A  Little  Pearl-drop,  342 
The  Bird's  Song,  343 
First  Robin  of  the  Spring,  345 
We've  Wakened,  346 
Hearth  and  Home— a  Song,  348 
"Footprints  of  the  Creator,"  350 
My  Father,  Dr.  Roswell  Bates,  351 
My  Father,  354 
Sweet  Twilight  Star,  356 
Coming  and  Going,  357 
The  Old  Homestead,  358 
Autumn  Leaves,  362 
Thanklessness,  363 
Creation    Teaches    Wondrous 

Songs,  365 
Jesus  Lovinu,  366 
The  Chicago  Fire,  368 
The  Dying  Pauper,  390 
Mighii 


AWhen  Shall  I  See  Thee,  416 
YOur  Sister,  41T 

We're  Dreaming,  419 

Our  Own  Dead,  421 

The  Angels  Came  for  Her,  422 

They  Tell  Me,  423 

Petitions,  424 

Despair  and  Prayer,  425 

The  Land  Beyond,  426 

Be  Happy,  428 

Oh,  Whure  Arc  They— Where,  429 
VOh,  Can  They  Forget,  431 
"VDo  They  Return,  433 
*  The  Land  of  the  Forever,  435 

In  a  Country  Far,  437 

Be  Still,  My  Soul,  438 

The  Hills  and  Seas,  440 

What  is  Fame  to  Woman,  441 

Lost  Souls  442 

Autumn  Winds,  443 

The  Lone  Tree,  444 

The  Mother  and  Baby,  445 

A  Morning  in  November,  448 

Yc  May  Part,  448 

Mr.  William  Cassidy,  449 

Ye  Are  Gone,  450 

The  Way  of  Life,  454 

If  All  the  Prayers,  etc.,  454 

Before  Myra  H 's  Death,  455 

After  Her  Death,  456 
VI  Love  to  Believe,  457 
xl'm  Almost  There,  459 

Oh,  If  for  Only  One  Short  Hour,  460 

My  Savior  Dear,  461 

Why  May  not  Women  Preach,  462 

Why  and  Because,  464 

Buzz,  465 

Wh  >n  He  Comes,  466 

An  Up  Telegram,  467 


Autumn's  Soughing  Winds,  392 

Adirondacks,  394 

What  are  the  Ocean  Wa\  es  Doing,  395    Bryant,  468 

The  Old  Year,  396  Centennial  Ode,  469 

To  Cousin  May  C n,  397 

Sing  on,  Sweet  Rill,  398 

The  Little  Beggar  Boy,  399 

'Tis  Sweet,  402 

The  Orphan  Boy,  404 

For  the  Fourth  of  July,  407 

The  Noble  Fireman,  408 

The  Warm  Weather,  409 


Lines  for  the  Fourth,  471 
The  Cry  for  Liberty,  472 
A  Hymn  of  Praise,  472 
World  Wonders,  474 
Furl  the  Flag,  476 
Central  Park,  478 
Longfellow,  479 


LINES  WRITTEN  WHEN  I  FIRST  THOUGHT 
OF  PUTTING  MY  EARLY  PIECES  IN  TYPE, 
IN  THE  LONG  AGO. 


Though  I  am  young,  in  childhood's  leisure 
I  court  the  Muses  for  my  pleasure, 
Fearing,  the  while,  they'll  come  to  shame  me 
For  my  presumption,  and  to  blame  me 
That  I  so  youthful  and  unwise 
Should  dare  to  lift  to  t?iem  my  eyes. 


But  if  they  frown,  and  slight,  and  jeer  me, 
They,  sometimes,  come  so  very  near  me 
That  I  can  see  the  chaplets  wreathing 
Their  fairy  brows,  and  hear  their  breathing  ; 
And  then  I  screen  my  blushing  face 
Lest  they  deny  me,  seeking  grace. 

But  though  youth's  shy,  'twill  often  venture 
To  try  its  wings  in  spite  of  censure  ; 
And  so  do  I,  a  youthful  creature — 
Who  to  step  safe  needs  yet  a  teacher — • 
Attempt  to  write  a  single  rhyme, 
Hoping  I  may  improve  in  time. 


10 


Then  dear  friends  (if  friends  I've  any — 
All  have  either  few  or  many), 
Should  these  lays,  I  write  in  childhood, 
Rustic  seem,  with  scent  of  wildwood, 
Or  too  weak  or  too  pathetic, 
Please  be,  each,  my  gentle  critic  ; 

For  my  heart  doth  faint  and  falter 
Here,  before  the  Muses'  altar ; 
And  my  fingers  shrink  and  tremble, 
For  I  cannot  well  dissemble 
That  I  fear  they'll  spurn  each  line, 
Though  /  love  it,  for  'tis  mine. 
183-. 


11 


THE  BURNING  OF  ST.  EUSTACHE,  CANADA. 
NO  FICTION. 


Written  and  spoken  at  a  School  Exhibition  in  my  early  school  days— 
1837. 


Aurora  dawned  in  beauty  on  our  land — 

Skies  smiled  aloft — the  air  was  fresh  and  bland ; 

Morn  never  shone  more  lovely,  bright,  or  clear; 

But  soon  a  cloud  arose — soon  dropped  the  tear— - 

A  darksome  doom  upon  our  village  fell, 

And  few  were  left  the  horrid  tale  to  tell. 

A  countless  host  against  the  Western  sky, 

With  martial  tread  and  banners  streaming  high, 

Equipped  for  fight,  on  our  defenseless  town, 

Like  hungry  mountain  jvolves,  came  rushing  down. 

And  the  dark  deeds,  within  that  lovely  vale, 

Will  be  to-night  the  burthen  of  my  tale. 

The  scene,  uprising  fresh  bofore  my  sight, 

Within  my  brain  seems  acted  o'er  to-night. 

"  Hark  you !  th'  approaching  tramp  ;  the  rolling  drum  ; 
The  '  Tory '  hosts  draw  near !    They  come !    They  come  1 
Haste  !  to  our  rescue  fly  !     My  son,  be  brave, 
And  ne'er  return  a  coward  or  a  slave. 
Let '  Death  or  Freedom '  your  proud  war-cry  be ; 
Fight  for  our  homes,  but  most  our  liberty." 
Thus  says  a  widowed  mother  to  her  son — 
Her  first-born  boy — and  quick  the  deed  is  done. 


12 

He  goes,  that  gallant  youth,  ~"th  eagle  eye, 
And  fervent  prayers  for  him  ;  :~end  on  high. 
He  joins  the  "  rebel "  force,  a"  d  with  his  might 
He  wields  his  weapons  foremost  in  the  fight. 
(O  !  noble  mother  of  a  noble  son 
Such  heroism  should  the-f^ld  have  won, 
E'en  though  his  band,  but  poorly  armed  and  few, 
Wrestled  with  thousands  who  the  broadsword  drew. 
But  fiends  methinks  in  human  shape  were  there, 
And  Pity  fled  the  field  in  blank  despair  ! 
Dire  carnage  and  disorder  gained  the  day, 
And  valiant  arms  were  crushed  amid  the  fray.) 
A  husband  from  the  scabbard  draws  his  sword, 
And  turns  his  face  to  front  th    hireling  horde. 
With  dark  forebodings  in  his  anxious  mind, 
He  turns  from  home  and  dear  ones  leaves  behind  ; 
Yet  looks  he  back  upon  the  faithful  wife 
Who  long  hath  shared  with  him  the  toils  of  life. 
With  gloomy  brow,  a  fond  adieu  he  waves ; 
Then,  speeding  swift,  o'ertakes  the  patriot  braves. 
For  her,  too  hard  the  test,  her  woman's  heart 
Shrinks  from  the  partner  of  her  life  to  part. 
Quick,  from  the  wainscot  with  her  fragile  hand 
A  gun  is  seized.     She  joins  the  "  rebel "  band. 
And  gray-haired  men,  far  past  the  prime  of  life, 
With  tott'ring  steps,  haste  onward  to  the  strife. 
And  aged  matrons  to  the  battle  fly, 
Beneath  the  soldier's  tread  ere  long  to  lie. 
And  children,  in  the  hurry  and  amaze, 
Scarce  from  the  parent's  knee,  their  weapons  raise. 
And  mothers,  trembling  from  their  couch  of  pain, 
With  tiny  babes,  press  to  the  bloody  plain. 
Thus,  with  a  force  half  puerile,  the  brave 
Push  to  the  conflict,  their  loved  land  to  save ; 
And,  though  outnumbered,  to  the  fight  impelled, 
In  honor  and  in  valor  they  excelled. 


13 

Nobly,  like  men,  each  battles  with  his  might, 
For  home  and  country  rush  befo-e  their  sight ; 
They  stagger  not  before  the  cTashing  steel, 
Nor  the  broad  claymore's  thrusts  force  them  to  reel ; 
But  like  to  savage  beasts  th'  opposing  host 
Combat,  and  honor  on  the  field  is  lost, 
While  cherished  homes  and  hearths  they  desecrate 
In  use  for  their  vile  purposes  to  wait. 

Now  serried  ranks  close  on  the  little  band 
Which,  hot  contesting,  grapple  hand  to  hand. 


But  list !  hoarse  shouts  of  victory  arise  ; 

Mis  patriot  blood  the  field  of  carnage  dyes ; 

Dread  massacre,  with  more  than  brutal  mien, 

With  horrid  front,  now  stalks  the  dismal  scene. 

The  gasping  warriors  fly  the  battle-plain ; 

In  heaps  the  dying  lie ;  in  heaps  the  slain. 

Some,  now  o'erpowered  and  fainting,  deign  to  yield  ^ 

Some  raise  the  flag  of  truce — time-hallowed  shield  ; 

While  women  to  the  house  of  God  repair, 

There  to  invoke  the  throne  of  heaven  with  pray'r. 

But  all  in  vain  the  flag  is  raised  on  high, 

And  ardent  prayers  ascend  the  vaulted  sky ; 

Heaven  from  the  carnage  turns  its  mournful  face, 

Lest  God,  in  wrath,  should  blast  the  mortal  race. 

Now,  rush  the  "  rebels  "  to  the  sacred  Fane, 

And,  in  their  haste,  each  nerve  and  fibre  strain  ; 

Still,  ruthless  murderers  their  steps  pursue, 

Thirsting  for  blood  of  those  whose  souls  were  true  • 

To  Peace,  to  Freedom — not  the  clanking  chains 

Of  dark  Oppression,  or  a  Tyrant's  reins. 

Quickly  overtaking  those  who  hither  flee — 

Unmoved  by  pity  or  the  suppliant  knee — 

They  thrust  through  every  heart  the  quiv'ring  blade ; 

The  glittering  bayonet  by  no  hand  is  staid ; 


14 

Not  e'en  the  infant  'neath  the  fond  embrace, 

Which  anxiously  looka  up  with  pleading  face ; 

Nor  e'en  the  pale,  consumptive,  ghastly  form 

Of  helpless  woman  can  be  spared  the  storm, 

Till,  desperate,  the  "  rebels  "  force  their  way, 

And  close  the  poitals  mid  the  awful  fray. 

As  heroes  brave  they  now  the  siege  withstand, 

And  bar  each  passage  with  a  mighty  hand. 

Oh,  useless  effort ;  life  prolonged  in  vain  ; 

A  moment  more,  they  number  with  the  slain. 

Sweet  Liberty  !  that  name  to  them  most  dear 

They  ne'er  can  know,  ne'er  feel  its  gladd'ning  cheer. 

Yet  Freedom  from  their  dust  full-armed  shall  spring, 

And  the  u  proud  bird  "  shall  soar  with  outspread  wing. 

The  foe  the  sacred  temple  now  defame, 

(Methinks  a  curse  hangs  o'er  their  deeds  and  name, 

Despair  and  anguish  shall  their  pathway  wreathe, 

And  scorpion  stings  each  smitten  conscience  seethe 

Asjjranded  Cains  upon  the  face  of  earth, 

No  solace  to  their  souls  shall  life  give  birth.) 

So,  nobly,  entrance  being  now  denied, 

Anger  inflames  ;  revenge  aloud  is  cried. 

Terrific  to  behold  their  mad  career — 

Thousands  'gainst  one — he  falls — the  brave  Cbenier  ! 

With  back  against  a  pillar  of  the  Fane, 

His  eye  ne'er  quailed,  nor  frenzied  reeled  his  brain ; 

Boldly  he  battled,  firm  and  undismay'd, 

And  slaughtered  numbers  by  his  hand  were  laid. 

With  more  than  lion-courage,  proud  he  stood 

TiH  countless  saber  thrusts  spilled  his  life  blood. 

Now,  'gainst  the  temple  fiery  darts  are  hurled — 

The  prisoned  soon  must  meet  another  world — 

Before  the  great  Avenger  they  will  stand 

To  plead  their  wrongs,  that  murdered,  noble  band  ; 

But  not  as  yet — the  arrows  powerless  fall, 

Nor  bullets  pierce  the  consecrated  wall. 


15 

Now,  to  the  roof  part  ply  the  flaming  torch, 

And  part  with  firebrands  light  the  sacred  porch. 

Red  flames  uprise  and  crackle  in  the  wind, 

And  devastation  follows  fast  behind. 

The  massive  walls,  now  fired,  are  cleaving  through  ; 

The  savage  monsters  raise  their  shouts  anew  ; 

The  adamantine  souls  the  trumpet  blow ; 

They  raise  the  cup  and  drink  the  crimson  flow, 

And  toast  their  lives,  their  wives,  their  heav'n,  their  all, 

Joying  at  those  foul  deeds,  which  hrave  they  call. 

Mercy,  to  them,  is  as  an  unknown  word, 

Its  thrilling  accents  are  unheeded  lizard. 

Now,  the  fierce-raging  element  within, 

Thundering,  drowns  the  ribaldry  and  din. 

Bursting,  the  scorching  flames  to  heaven  ascend ; 

The  earth's  foundation  shakes;  the  echoes  rend 

The  air  ;  keen,  piercing  shrieks,  heartrending  cries, 

Deep,  gurgling  death-groans  from  the  dying  rise ; 

The  ear  is  stunned ;  word*  never  can  portray 

The  dreadful  scene,  nor  man  the  deeds  repay. 

His  soul  would  faint  ere  half  his  work  was  done ; 

E'en  its  foul  image  he  would  haste  to  shun. 

Some  'scape  the  luri  1  flames  through  broken  sash, 

Ere  their  hot  prison-walls  around  them  crash  ; 

They  leap  upon  the  graves  where  sleep  the  dead 

Of  earlier  days,  ere  yet  the  hostile  tread 

Of  British  minions  had  defiled  the  sod 

And  drenched  the  hallowed  dust  with  patriot  blood. 

Here  still  pursued  ?     Oh,  whither  shall  they  go  ? 

Followed  by  hosts  who  aim  the  deadly  blow, 

They  dread  the  massacre  they  needs  must  feel, 

They  dread  the  mangling  of  the  reeking  steel; 

A  prey  to  fien  is  begirt  with  human  form, 

They  raise  alas  !  the  suicidal  arm. 

Most  gloomy  fate  !  that  man  should  spill  his  blood 

To  'scape  the  vengeance  of  a  demon  crowd. 


16 


Girond  thus  perishes;  with  his  own  hands 
Stained  by  his  blood,  he  enters  unknown  lands. 
(One  leader  he  of  those  few  patriot  braves 
Who  courted  death  rather  than  live  as  slaves.) 
Thus  many  fell  upon  their  native  soil — 
Their  late  proud  home — a  prey  to  fury's  spoil. 
The  foe  insatiate  still,  with  rapid  haste 
The  dear,  devoted  villa-ge  is  laid  waste. 
(But  erst  is  pillaged  every  house  and  hut, 
The  greedy  hirelings'  purse  with  wealth  to  glut ) 
Destruction  reigns  supreme;  the  burning  air 
Now  drives  the  rabid  soldiery  from  its  lair. 
Titeir  work  is  finished  ;  but  the  day  hastes  on 
When  God  will  retribute  the  dark  deeds  done. 


Now  turn  I  back  where  loved  Eustache  just  stood  : 
I  gaze  in  anguish  on  the  blood-drenched  sod  ; 
Here  lie  in  heaps  the  noble  warriors  slain 
Fighting  for  home  and  country,  but  in  vain  ; 
And  here  ihe  mother,  wife  and  gentle  child, 
Mangled  and  to  n  as  by  beasts  of  the  wild  ; 
And  there,  'mid  smoking  ruins  where  once  bowed 
The  humble  souls  before  a  gracious  God, 
Lie  bones  and  ashes  of  the  bodies  doomed 
To  writhe  beneath  the  flames  which  them  consumed  ; 
And  there,  too,  fallen  homes  around  whose  hearths 
The  loved  ones  met  ere  they  had  fled  from  earth. 
Oh,  sickening  sight !     With  heart  appalled  I  gaze 
Upon  the  spot  beloved  of  former  days. 
Havoc  of  wrath,  flames,  butchery  and  death, 
Late  smiling  vales,  fouled  by  war's  blasting  breath. 
Ye  weep,  kind  ladies  !  not  unpitying,  weep  ; 
Blush  not  that  t^ar-drops  from  their  fountains  creep: 
How  could,  unmoved,  ye  view  those  lone  r  mains  ? 
Earth,  soaked  with  crimson  gore  from  mortal  veins  ? 


17 

The  noble  husband,  youth  and  aged  sire 

Passed  thus  from  earth  to  sate  a  savage  ire  ! 

How  could,  unmoved,  ye  view  your  sex  enthralled 

In  war's  dire  carnage  brutally  despoiled  ? 

Unpitying  view  the  nursling  innocent, 

So  harmless,  tortured  to  give  vengeance  vent  ? 

Poor  little  trembling  captive,  hither  led 

To  writhe  beneath  the  scourge  with  kindred  dead. 

The  mourning  ones  (if  such  their  race  survive), 

Friendless,  perchance,  upon  the  earth  to  live  ? 

The  sight  might  cause  a  saint  to  drop  a  tear, 

To  weep  with  those  who  still  may  linger  here  ; 

Might  cause  the  angels  who  sit  round  the  throne 

To  heave  a  sigh  for  those  who  thence  have  flown. 

Ladies,  that  dreadful  day  is  scarcely  past — 
The  dying  embers  crackle  on  the  waste — 
And  while  the  mournful  ta'e  to  you  I  tell, 
Swine  lick  the  dust  where  patriot  heroes  fell. 

Oh,  tell  me,  spirits,  round  the  judgment  bar — 

Ye  countless  host,  who  range  both  near  and  far — 

Oh,  tell  me,  was  such  doom  decreed  on  High 

By  Him  who  reigns  beyond  the  ambient  sky  ? 

Or  was  it  so  dt  creed  by  hell  beneath, 

Man  should  thus  perish,  thus  his  life  bequeath 

To  sate  a  brutal,  hireling,  ireful  foe  ? 

Here  drops  the  vail — this  mortals  may  not  know. 


18 


A  PROLOGUE. 


"Written  in  my  early  school  days. 

Kind  audience,  before  you  we  appear, 

With  grateful  thanks  for  that  indulgent  ear 

Which  you  so  gently  to  our  voices  lent 

When  last  we  spake,  Avith  fear,  so  diffident. 

And  now,  again,  we  beg  that  same  kind  ear 

To  cheer  our  hearts  and  calm  that  youthful  fear. 

We  seek  for  favor,  but  ask  not  applause, 

Nor  do  we  think  to  speak  by  critic's  laws. 

Ladies,  expect  not  actresses  to  come, 

With  much  experience  and  with  glory  won  ; 

But  wait  us,  simple,  inexperienced  youth, 

Whose  falt'ring  tongues  aim  to  speak  only  truth, 

And  while  in  mimic  acts  we  take  a  part, 

Survey  us  with  a  kind  and  friendly  heart ; 

And  should  our  efforts  of  this  eve  be  vain 

To  please  or  to  amuse,  dear  ladies  deign 

To  judge  us  gently;  all  the  faults  excuse 

Of  trembling  pupils,  who  are  not  much  used 

To  tpcak  and  act  in  public  on  the  stage, 

To  edify  an  audience  of  this  age. 

Mayhap,  in  course  of  time,  some  here  will  be 

As  learned  and  famed  as  most  of  those  I  see  ; 

Our  minds  may  grow,  our  faculties  expand, 

Our  knowledge  may  extend  from  land  to  land. 

Aye,  such  as  great  as  Hemans  may  arise 

(In  song  as  gifted,  and  in  lore  as  wise) 

From  out  these  yomhful,  student  ranks  of  ours, 

To  show  the  world  their  mind's  superior  powers. 

Yes ;  then  some  ghosts  of  writers,  long  since  dead, 

May  meet  superiors  soaring  in  their  stead, 

And  fear  the'r  fame  eclipsed,  come  back  again, 

Revise  their  musty  books— re  wield  their  pen. 


AFTER  THE  NEWS  OF  LAFAYETTE'S  DEATH, 


Brave  Lafayette !    "  The  nation's  guest," 
"\^ho  came  to  bless  a  land  now  blest, 
Thy  noble  heart,  of  heavenly  birth, 
Revered  by  all  who  felt  thy  worth  ; 
Thy  ready  true  and  valiant  hand, 
Reached  forth  to  aid  our  struggling  land, 
Now  throbs  no  more — each  pulse  is  staid, 
In  the  chill  tomb  thy  form  is  laid ; 
Yet  though  from  earth  has  fled  thy  soul, 
Thy  fame  shall  sound  while  ages  roll, 
And  Lafayette  shall  ever  be 
Linked  with  the  name  of  Liberty. 


LAKE  CIIAMPLAIF. 


"Written  after  crossing  it  in  1835. 

Thy  waters,  beautiful  Champlain, 
.  Were  calm  and  clear  ; 
No  wave  was  seen  upon  thy  main- 
Nothing  to  fear. 

But  were  it  always  so  with  thee, 

Lakelet  serene  ? 
Did  ne'er  man  peiish  'neath  thy  waves, 

In  tempests  keen  ? 

Have  not  thy  surges  swelled  and  foamed 

An  ocean  wide  ? 
And  has  not  man  thy  billows  roamed — 

A  dangerous  tide  ? 

Oh,  who  can  tell  what  thou  wert  once  ? 

What  thou  wilt  be  ? 
Perchance  thy  waters  yet  may  roll 

A  boundless  sea. 


OUR  CLASSIC  GREEK. 


"When  in  distant,  future  years, 
We  are  cast  on  stranger  lands, 

Childhood's  joys  and  childhood's  tears 
Meni'ry  then  shall  call  to  mind. 

The  green  on  which  we  oft  have  met 

Shall  we  ever  then  forget  ? 

When  by  time's  fast-fleeting  breath 
All  our  locks  are  silv'ry  gray; 

When  a  part  lie  cold  in  death, 

Sleeping  'neath  their  kindred  clay, 

Then  shall  those  who  linger  yet 

Ere  their  classic  green  forget  ? 

Where  our  halls  of  science  stand, 
Where  our  happiest  days  have  fled, 

Where  have  oft  this  youthful  band 
Sat  beneath  their  cooling  shade ; 

There  upon  our  classic  green 

Shall  we  all  e'er  meet  again  ? 

Land  of  knowledge — land  of  fame — 

Land  of  light  and  liberty, 
Nations,  bowing  to  thy  name, 

Envy  now  thy  majesty  ; 
Shall  we  all  e'er  meet  again 
Here  upon  thy  wide  domain  2 


THE  BACKSLIDING  DRUNKARD. 


His  name  I  will  not  tell. 

He  was  a  man ; 

But  oh,  he  loved  the  bowl  too  well, 
And  fearful  was  its  fatal  spell, 
So  feirful  that  the  fiends  of  hell 

Held  him  in  ban. 

Kind  fiiends  he  had  and  true — 

A  sister  dear, 

A  brother  and  a  mother,  too, 
And  anxious  prayers  ascended  new, 
And  tears  were  shed  that  he  might  rue 

His  course  with  fear. 

He  tried — in  wisdom's  plan 

Awhile  he  lived — 
But  the  foul  tempter  'gain  began 
(A  tempter  in  the  form  of  man) 
To  burst  fair  Reason's  envied  span — 

Again  she  fled. 

And  now  a  drunken  sot 

He  treads  his  way  • 

And  p-ayers  and  tears  of  friends  forgot, 
And  friends  still  dear,  he  heeds  them  not, 
But  better  loves  the  outcast's  lot, 

And  beggary. 


HER  JEWELS. 


Of  a  noble  and  rich  lady. 

Modesty  and  virtue  were  the  jewels  that  she  wore, 
And,  conscious  of  their  beauty,  she  never  asked  for  more  ; 
Unmeaning  gold  and  princely  gem  she  felt  could  not 

adorn 
The  soul  that  for  Eternity  was  destined  to  be  born. 

«* 

Modesty  and  virtue  her  every  act  confest 
(No  pride  of  birth  or  pride  of  wealth  e'er  lodged  within 

her  breast), 
And  radiant  with  their  purity  she  shone  more  sweetly 

bright 
Than  any  earthly  diadem  beheld  by  mortal  sight. 


TO  THE  SAME. 


Since  virtue  glistens  on  thy  brow, 

A  gem  so  sweetly  fair, 
Let  heaven's  grace  accompany 

Ever  the  jewel  there. 


MUSINGS. 


Spoken  at  school. 


Who  was  not  born  to  die  ?     Whose  life  will  never  end  ? 
Whose  eye  hath  never  wept  ?      Who   hath   not   lost   a 

friend  ? 

Alas  !  'Tis  vain  to  ask,  methinks  I  hear  thee  say  ; 
All  must  in  time  depart ;  all,  all  must  hence  away. 

To  mansions  far  beyond  these  climes  immortal  souls 

must  take  their  flight, 

Or  far  beneath  !     (Unhappy  thought.)     Dying,  yet 
live  through  endless  night. 

Who  hath  not  disappointment  felt  ?     Whose  fond  hopes 

ne'er  decay  ? 
Around  whom  hath  adversity  ne'er  writhed  with  with- 

'rirg  sway  ? 
E'en  by  the  child  its  grasp  is  felt — these  ills  in  human. 

shape 
The  infant  on  its  mother's  breast  can  scarce  be  said  to 

'scape. 
Why  hope  we  then  for  happier  days  below  ?     Since 

hope  to  us  will  be  of  no  avail. 

The  curtain  drops,  and  lo  !  futurity — ah,  who  can 
read  the  direful,  doleful  tale  ? 

Who  ha'h  not  heard  the  warning  voice  ?     Who  hath  not 

felt  the  conscience  speak  ? 
Who  hath  not  watched  the  pallid  brow  ?    Who  hath  not 

marked  the  hectic  cheek  ? 


25 

Ah,  none;  none  must  the  answer  be;  sin  causes  all  a 

pang  to  feel ; 
Sorrow  and  pain  here  never  rest,  nor  penitence  the  wound 

can  heal. 
But  we  must  look   far,   far  beyond  these  earthly 

realms  to  realms  unknown  ; 

There  happiness  takes  its  abode  ;  there  all  that  mor- 
tals wish  is  flown. 

ANSWER. 

Kay,  say  not  thus,  dear  friend;   that  brow  was  never 

marked  wi'h  pain  ; 

That  eye  the  tear  of  sorrow  never  shed — 'tis  all  in  vain 
To  fix  thy  thoughts  on  things  so  distant,  so  divine, 
When  now  thy  cup  o'erflows  with  bliss — all  wished  is 

thine. 

REPLY. 

How  little  dost  thou  know  of  earth,  thy  youth  and  inex- 
perience tell ; 
This  heart  its  anguish  cannot  speak  ;  'tis  known  by  none, 

yet  'tis  as  well ;  •» 

And  though  this  brow  and  eye  so  gay  and  tranquil 

may  to  thee  appear, 

Know  thou  that  many  a  smile  plays  on  the  lip 
When  all  within  would  gladly  weep, 
And  drop  the  penitential  tear. 


OLD  PICKWAKET,  NOW  FRYEBURG,  ME. 


A  composition.    Fryeburg,  Me.    Impromptu. 


My  friends,  as  all  our  text  doth  know 

In  rhyme  to  us  was  given  ; 
So  you  will  all  excuse,  I  trow 

A  rhyiny  composition. 

Please  let  me  then  begin  my  task, 

To  tell  about  a  hero ; 
His  name  or  place  you  need  not  ask, 

'Twill  soon  be  all  cognito. 

In  seventeen  hundred,  twenty-five, 
From  Massachusetts  came,  then, 

A  hero  as  gallant  as  brave, 
And  Lovel  was  his  name,  ken. 

He  came  up  through  a  forest  drear, 
And  swamps  and  bogs  and  all  that, 

And  quartered  at  a  place  quite  near, 
Which  then  they  called  Pickwaket. 

But  Lovel  came  not  up  alone  ; 

No,  there  were  others  came,  too, 
With  Frye,  a  chaplain  of  their  own, 

Who — wondrous  ! — did  the  same,  too. 

'Twas  on  the  seventh  day  of  May 
That  they  arrived  here  safely, 


27 


And  on  the  eighth  began  a  fray, 
At  ten  o'clock,  so  gayly. 

But  ere  they  did  this  fray  begin, 
They  wandered  from  their  course  some, 

Till  they  at  length  two  miles  had  been, 
To  meet  an  Indian's  welcome. 

'Twas  at  this  time  that  Lovel  spied, 

Upon  a  neck  of  land  near, 
An  Indian  in  all  his  pride, 

Preparing  an  escort  here. 

He  cried,  at  once,  "Take  heed,  my  boys; 

We  soon  shall  be  gallanted, 
By  those  whom  we  had  rather  not, 

If  he  remains  undaunted." 

Then  all  at  once  they  went  to  work, 
And  soon  their  guns  did  work,  too; 

TVhile  he — the  Indian — quite  as  quick, 
Two  guns  did  shoot,  and  run,  too. 

Yet  though  he  run,  'twas  all  for  naught, 

The  English  all  had  feet,  too, 
And  soon  he  found  that  he  was  caught, 

And  soon  had  lost  his  scalp,  too. 

But  here  the  fracas  ended  not — 
Their  knapsacks  had  departed  ! 

They  took  to  heels  and  left  the  spot 
"Where  they  had  been  deserted. 

Now,  all  must  know,  who  use  their  eyes, 
These  heels  they  must  have  borrowed; 

So  these  brave  men  concluded  wise 
That  they  had  been  discovered. 


28 


And  hurried,  too,  they  were,  I  ween, 
For  soon,  at  least,  full  fourscore 

Of  the  Pickwaket  tribe  were  seen 
To  from  their  ambush  forth  pour. 

Their  welcome,  to  be  sure,  was  hot — • 
From  hot  it  hotter  grew,  though, 

Till  many  Indians  were  shot — 
Till  many  of  them  flew,  though. 

This  battle,  as  you,  doubtless,  see, 
Commenced  they  in  the  morning, 

Nor  did  they  from  the  contest  flee 
Until  the  sun  was  setting. 

'Twas  then  that  to  the  water's  brink 

A  Paugus  was  escorted, 
By  one  called  Chamberlain,  I  think, 

When  one  the  other  challenged. 

But  which  it  was  I've  quite  forgot, 
Though  Paugus  'twas  who  paid  it; 

For  there  he  died  upon  the  spot, 
And  none  did  e'er  regret  it. 

Now,  as  I  once  before  have  said, 

Within  this  battle,  eighty 
Of  Indians  there  were,  but  of 

The  English,  four  and  thirty. 

Yet,  though  of  Englishmen  there  were 
But  few  in  point  of  number, 

The  loss  to  them  was  soon  made  up 
As  they  lacked  not  for  valor 

They  beat  the  Indians,  out  and  out, 
And  ransacked  old  Pickwaket, 


29 

Till  not  a  single  soul  was  left 
To  fight  for  or  redeem  it. 

But,  I've  before  my  story  got, 

For  e'er  the  battle  ended, 
'Twas  Captain  Lovel  had  been  shot, 

And  Chaplain  Frye  been  wounded. 

And  fourteen  more  there  were  who  found 

That  they  were  tired  of  fighting, 
And  prone  extended  on  the  ground 

They  seemed,  in  quiet,  resting. 

And  there  they  rested  five  days  long, 

When  they,  at  length,  were  buried 
(At  least,  mcthinks,  so  says  the  song), 

And  then  the  rest  departed. 

[Written  running,  March,  1841  ] 


30 


TO  A  SCHOOLMATE  IN  GORIIAM,  ME. 


Dear  friend,  like  many,  we  are  doomed  to  part, 

As  we,  like  many,  here  on  earth  have  met; 
But  shall  the  tie  that  binds  a  heart  to  heart 

Perish  by  time  or  wither  by  neglect? 
And  must  we  part  to  meet  no  more  for  years — 

To  meet,  perchance,  but  in  eternity; 
Or  shall  we  meet  within  this  vale  of  tears 

As  strangers  meet,  and  pass  by  silently; 
Or  shall  we  meet  in  friendship's  warm  embrace, 

Remembered  by  each  other  long  and  well? 
Whate'er  the  time,  whate'er  the  way  or  place, 

This  last  fond  tale  may  I  be  doomed  to  tell. 

ANSWER. 

Aye,  friend  in  joy,  we  here  have  met, 
Within  this  earthly  vale  of  tears, 

And  now  in  sorrow  we  must  part, 
To  meet  no  more  perhaps  for  years — 

To  meet  (but  must  it,  can  it  be?) — 

To  meet  but  in  eternity. 

'Tis  hard  to  leave  the  friends  we  love, 

With  this  sad  destiny  in  view; 
'Tis  hard  to  sever  youthful  hearts, 

Enchained  by  frienship  warm  and  true. 
But  we  can  meet  on  heaven's  shore, 
Where  friends  are  doomed  to  part  no  more. 


31 


LOVE. 

Love!  love!    Pray  what  is  love? 

Tell  me,  oh,  ye  who  feel  its  witchery. 
They  say  that  love  has  charms — 

I  do  not  know — 
And  that  its  object  of  faults  disarms — 

An  instance  show. 

I  never  saw  one  right  in  mind  and  looks; 
I've  only  read  the  thing  in  fairy  books. 

They  say,  blind  are  Love's  eyes — 

Can  this  be  true? 
And  that  he  aims  his  darts  from  yon  blue  skies — 

I  wish  I  knew. 

I  never  saw  his  arrows  cleave  the  air; 
And  yet  they  say  it  is  a  thing  not  rare. 

They  say  that  Love  is  coy — 

I  cannot  tell; 
And  yet  they  say  that  Cupid  is  a  boy — 

Oh,  very  well. 

Yet  still  it  is  a  thing  to  me  most  strange 
That  through  the  world  a  boy  so  shy  should. range. 

Oh,  naughty  little  Love! 

Thou  art  unkind 
To  reckless  aim  thy  arrows  from  above, 

When  thou  art  blind. 

Poor,  silly  thing,  thou'rt  but  a  name;  no  more — 
Imagination  gives  thee  life  and  powder. 


I'LL  TAKE  IT  BACK.     TO  LOVE. 

So,  little  Mr.  Cupid, 

You  think  me  very  stupid, 

And  you  really  do  resent  it, 

And  you  mean  I  shall  repent  it, 

Because  I  called  you  "silly  thing," 

Little  boy,  with  silver  wing. 

So  you  aimed  at  me  a  dart, 
Thinking  it  would  pierce  my  heart, 
Meaning  I  should  make  confession 
That  I  did  commit  transgression 
When  I  called  you  "  silly  thing" 
Little  boy,  with  silver  wing. 

But,  indeed,  you  were  unkind, 
Little  boy,  though  you  were  blind, 
Thus  to  aim  at  me  love's  arrow  ; 
For  I  own  my  'scape  was  narrow, 
For  I  almost  felt  the  sting, 
Little  boy,  with  silver  wing. 

And  I  will  take  back  the  word 
Which,  unluckily,  you  heard, 
Though  my  heart  is  safe  and  sound  yet  ; 
And  you  needn't  think  to  wound  it, 
Because  I  called  you  "silly  thing," 
Little  boy,  with  silver  wing. 


33 


THE  WORDS  OF  A  BROTHER,  DYING  AT  SEA- 
SHERIDAN. 


"  Don't  leave  me — don't  leave  me — don't  leave  me,"  he 
cried, 

"  Thus  to  die  here  alone  on  the  sea ; 
Don't  leave  me — don't  leave  me,  but  watch  by  my  side, 

My  dear  father  would  were  it  he. 

"  My  father,  my  father,  oh,  father,  come  near ; 

Is  this  death  that  is  scorching  my  brain  ? 
How  harsh  is  his  touch,  how  racking  and  sear, 

Yet,  Heaven,  I  must  not  complain. 

<c  No,  no,  I  must  die  on  the  broad  ocean's  foam, 

With  no  friend,  with  no  comforter  nigh ; 
No  brother,  no  sister — far,  far  from  my  home ; 

But  ah  !  there's  a  home  in  the  sky. 

"  Roll  on,  then,  ye  waters  ;  roll  on,  then,  ye  waves ; 

Your  proud  boast  I  shall  soon  cease  to  care, 
That  millions  now  moulder  within  their  deep  graves, 

And  I,  too,  must  mix  with  them  there. 

"  Don't  Jeave  me — don't  leave  me,"  yet  once  more  he 
cried  ; 

"  Oh,  my  father,  my  father,  come  near ;" 
But  ah  !  no  father  was  there  by  his  side, 

No  lovtd  ones  his  last  hour  to  cheer. 

And  now  in  the  deep — all  unmarked  is  the  spot — 
Doth  he  sleep  'neath  the  rough,  roaring  billow  ; 


34 


But  oh  !  by  his  friends  he  will  ne'er  be  forgot — 
Nor  the  sailor  who  watched  by  his  pillow. 

And  though  hard  and  cruel  on  earth  was  his  fate 
Yet,  dear  God,  we  will  strive  ne'er  to  sorrow  ; 

Though  dead — he  has  gone  to  a  happier  state, 
And  we'll  meet  him  in  some  future  morrow. 


35 


SHERIDAN. 

I  see  him  in  my  dreams,  and  think  he  lives ; 

And  as  upon  his  well-known  face  I  gaze, 
I  feel  him  warmly  clasp  my  hand  in  his, 

While  he  doth  talk  to  me  of  bygone  days. 
I  see  him  in  my  dreams — my  brother  dear — 

And  as  we  ramble  by  some  stream  or  brook, 
He  points  me  to  the  waters  bright  and  clear, 

And  then  to  heaven  he  casts  an  upward  look. 
I  see  him  in  my  dreams — a  vessel  lies 

Within  a  harbor,  not  far  off  from  land 
He  tells  me  there  is  where  the  sailor  dies, 

And  then — too  soon — he  gives  the  parting  hand. 
Again  I  see  my  brother — by  his  side, 

As  round  his  brow  a  smile  of  joy  doth  play, 
Upon  the  foaming,  billowy  sea  I  ride, 

Nor  deem  I  there  must  be  a  parting  day 
And  then  I  see  him  as  the  deck  he  walks, 

While  loosely  o'er  his  arm  doth  hang  a  shroud, 
And  then  I  hear  him  as  he  whisp'ring  talks 

With  angels — seemingly  an  angel-crowd. 
And  then  I  see  him  as  he  climbs  the  mast 

(Obeying  orders)  till  he  gains  its  head, 
Bedecked  in  robes  of  white,  on  which  "  Tis  past " 

In  golden  letters  shines,  by  angels  read. 
And  then  I  see  him  as  with  them  the  sky 

He  traces  till  around  God's  throne  they  stand. 
And  1  hen  I  hear  a  voice — 'tis  from  on  high — 

"  Sister,  weep  not,  I  came  at  God's  command." 
then,  again,  a  voice  like  music  sweet 

I  hear;  'tis  his— the  strain  is  silvery  clear — 


36 

"  Sister,  weep  not,  we  soon  again  may  meet." 

And  then  what  see  I  but  the  funeral  bier, 
And  on  it  is  an  open  coffin  placed, 

Methink-,  and  by  it  lies  the  dismal  pall ; 
And  then,  methinks  that  spirits  round  I  trace, 

Who  fain  me  to  another  world  would  call. 
And  then,  methinks,  I  look  upon  the  deep, 

While  op'ning  yawn  its  dark  and  troubled  waves; 
They  tell  me  there  is  where  I  soon  must  bleep  ; 

'Tis  there  the  dead  at  sea  must  find  their  graves 
"  My  God  !"-— 'tis  now  in  agony  I  cry — 

"  What  meaneth  this  ?"  as  quakes  my  frame  with  fear. 
Again  I  heard  his  voice,  in  soft  reply, 

"  Sister,  why  shed  you  then  the  sorrowing  tear  ? 
I  thought  you  wept  that  we  had  paited  been; 

And  still  you  do  not  wish  that  we  may  meet ; 
Or  would  you  call  me  back  to  earth  again  ? 

Or  why  refuse  in  heaven  me  to  greet  ? 
Or  know'st  thou  not  that  none  can  come  this  way 

Till  they  have  passed  the  portals  of  the  dead  ? 
Yet  linger  if  thou  wilt ;  yes,  ling'ring,  stay 

Till  all  thou  lov'st  on  earth  hath  from  thee  fled. 
Linger  till  time  hath  lurrowcd  deep  thy  cheek 

With  sorrow,  pain  and  anguish,  and  thine  eye 
Hath  dull  and  heavy  grown,  thy  lify-blood  weak  ; 

Then  we  may  meet  shouldst  thou  then  wish  to  die. 
Yet,  sister,  hear  me,  cling  not  thus  to  earth  ; 

There  is  a  poison  in  its  every  joy — 
Crave  not  its  bliss,  'tis  all  of  little  worth  ; 

And  yet  how  many  doth  its  bliss  destroy  1 
Sister,  prepare  to  meet  me  soon  above — 

Thy  mother  joins  me  in  this  last  request. 
Here  all  is  happiness  and  joy  and  love  ; 

Here  are  the  loved  of  God  most  truly  blest." 
But  now  the  spell  is  past,  the  dream  is  done ; 

While  all  I  have  I'd  freely,  gladly  give 


87 

Could  I  but  surely  know  that  he  had  gone 
To  where  the  blest  of  God  triumphant  live ; 

Could  I  but  see,  as  in  my  dream  I  saw, 

Him  stand  with  angels  at  the  Lamb's  right  hand, 

No  tears  should  evermore  my  eye  let  flow, 
Save  'twere  to  meet  him  in  the  "  better  land." 


33 


TO 


There  is  a  theme  on  which  I'm  doomed  to  dwell 

From  night  till  morn,  from  rise  till  set  of  sun. 
I  fly  in  vain  the  ever-sounding  knell, 

And  try  to  shut  the  imagery  of  one 
From  'neath  my  heart.     But  bear  with  me,  my  frimd, 

For  thou  ere  long  may'st  know  what  'tis  to  mourn 
O'er  one  whom  thou  hast  loved,  and  weep  his  end, 

So  unexpected  from  thy  fond  heart  torn. 
And  think  not  I  my  promise  have  forgot, 

That  "  I  with  scribbling  ne'er  would  vex  thee  more.'1 
But  pardon  me  for  an  untruth,  and  wot 

That  when  the  bosom  heaves  with  sorrow  sore, 
There  is  a  happiness  unknown  by  all, 

A  pleasure  pure  in  breathing  out  the  thoughts 
To  those  whom  we  esteem  and  rightly  call 

Our  friends — those  who  o'erlook  our  many  faults. 
Then  let  thou  me  once  more  my  song  renew, 
Nor  chide  me  though  the  picture  prove  untrue. 

I  woke — 'twas  morn — no  smiling  zephyrs  played 
Among   the  blosoms  rare  of  Beauty's  bower; 

No  sportive  rills,  no  airy  songsters  strayed 
To  greet  me  as  I  culled  a  new  blown  flower. 

No  ;  but  in  sable  dressed  the  heavens  frowned, 
And  seemed  in  thunders  loud  and  bold  to  speak 

"A  curse  on  man  !     Let  vengeance  heal  the  wound 
That  sin  hath  made  ;  let  God  His  vengeance  wreak." 

Then  quick  athwart  the  sky  the  lightnings  rushed, 
And  all  on  earth  shone  as  it  were  one  blaze ; 


39 

Then  from  beneath  their  bounds  vast  torrents  gushed 
Impetuously,  as  'twere  in  former  days. 

Then  fierce  the  howling  winds  together  clashed, 
And  seeming,  warred  with  Heaven's  elements, 

While  rocks  and  mountains  huge  in  twain  were  dashed, 
And  earth  was  shattered  by  its  million  rents. 

The  oceans  rocked  and  roared  and  heaved  in  one ; 

The  dark  above  met  with  the  dark  below; 
They  met,  but  parted— still  no  rising  sun 

Or  noonday  light  dispelled  the  fear  of  woe. 

'Twas  hurrying  then  ;  and  many  a  half-said  prayer 
Unheard,  was  drowned  beneath  the  tumult's  roar  ; 

And  thicker,  faster,  lightnings  filled  the  air, 
And  peal  on  peal  ot  thunder,  thunder  bore. 

I  gazed  ;  but  ere  the  twinkling  of  an  eye 
I  heard,  I  saw,  I  felt  the  dead  were  raised— 

'Twas  hushed,  'twas  calm  ;  behold  !  the  sea  was  dry  ; 
The  dead  of  sea  the  dead  of  earth  amazed. 


40 


ENVY  AND  JEALOUSY. 


Envy  and  Jealousy,  two  sisters,  met, 

The  one  in  a  stew  and  the  one  in  a  fret ; 

For  as  they  were  viewing  the  news  of  the  day, 

They  spied  a  new  piece,  in  their  usual  way, 

Which  troubled  them  sore,  for  they  were  afraid 

That  credit  was  due  to  whom  it  was  laid ; 

And  thus  they  in  confidence  quickly  began 

The  piece,  with  its  faults  and  its  virtues,  to  scan. 

They  looked  first  at  this  part,  and  then  looked  at  that ; 

Its  faults  far  exceeded  its  virtues  they  thought ; 

u  But  who  is  the  authoress,  pray  can  you  tell  ? 

Miss  B.  it  is  not ;  she  could  ne'er  write  so  well." 

"  No,  not  her,"  now  outspake  Miss  Envy  aloud  ; 

"  But  I  wish  those  who  wrote  were  not  quite  so  proud, 

And  those  who  do  not,  would  cease  to  lay  claim 

To  what  is  not  theirs,  for  the  gaining  of  fame. 

You  doubtless  remember  a  piece,  long  ago 

We  heard  ;  though  not  good,  it  was  yet  something  so. 

And,  too,  what  eclat  the  authoress  got ; 

But  yet  'twas  half  borrowed — do  you  think  it  was  not  ?'' 

"  Indeed  'twas  not  hers — the  piece — I  am  sure  ; 

But  then  if  it  was,  pray  who  can  endure 

This  writing  and  rhyming,  with  all,  which  of  hite 

The  world  looks  upon  as  so  wonderfully  great  ? 

I  wish  that  Miss  B.  was  as  wise  as  she's  witty ; 

Yet  as  she  is  not,  we  must  scorn  her  or  pity. 

Yet  we  are  not  all  who  doubt  her,  I  ween, 

For  there's  Mistress  M.,  who  declared  she  had  seen 

The  very  same  piece,  and  had  read  it  before, 

Although  some  one  else  had  for  her  fixed  it  o'er. 


41 

Now  any  one  might,  I  should  think,  if  they  chose, 

Just  take  an  old  piece  of  verse  or  of  prose, 

And  polish  it  well  with  new-fashioned  airs, 

And  then  to  the  world  declare  that  it's  theirs/' 

"  Oh,  yes,"  cried  Miss  Jealousy ;  "  Come,  let  us  try  it ; 

Soon  each  may  be  called  a  great  writer  or  poet." 

And  now,  as  she  sits  with  her  pen  and  her  books, 

The  image  of  Poetry  Jealousy  looks. 

But  Envy  is  still,  with  her  dishevelled  hair, 

Her  serpentine  tongue  and  her  maniac  air, 

With  eyes  'neath  whose  lashes  a  demon  like  fire 

Lies  hidden  in  part — 'tis  the  murderer's  ire — 

Engaged  in  her  office-work — peace  to  her  soul ; 

If  peace  can  be  found  where  has  Falsehood  her  goal. 


DEATH'S  FLOWERS. 


aa  a  small  token  of  respect  to  the  memory  of  the  two 
cousins  and  an  aged  man,  all  buried  in  one  week  in  our  little  village. 
The  two  cousins  were  children  of  Messrs.  C.  and  T.  Briggs.] 


Alas  !  alas  !  a  lovely  flower, 

Scarce  op'ning  on  its  stein, 
Death  took,  while  on  his  cruel  tour, 

To  grace  his  diadem. 
And  now  the  parent  stock  is  left 

To  droop  in  sadness  o'er 
The  bud  of  which  it  is  bereft, 

Till  it  shall  be  no  more. 
And  still  another  blossom  rare 

A  kindi\d  plant  must  mourn  ; 
A  blossom  precious,  more  mature, 

Which  Death  far  thence  hath  borne. 
And  thus  it  is  the  young  and  good 

Are  favorites  with  all — 
Then  why  should  death,  in  stranger  mood. 

Pass  those  most  worth  his  call  ? 
Aye,  why  should  Death  the  prattling  sweet, 

That  twines  so  closely  round 
Its  mother's  anxious,  doting  heart, 

Pass  by  in  scorn  profound  ? 
Or  why  should  he,  the  first-born  child. 

Bright  with  intelligence, 
The  parent's  hope,  the  fair,  the  mild, 

Pass  by  in  negligence  ? 
He  never  did,  he  never  will 

Neglect  the  chosen  few ; 
And  though  he  comes  urn-ought  and  still, 

His  grasp  is  firm  and  true. 


43 


Yet  none  but  once  shall  feel  his  power 

While  stay  they  here  below ; 
The  tender  "  bud,"  the  blooming  "  flower  " 

Death's  chill  but  once  must  know. 
The  aged  "  oak,"  with  palsied  breath, 

Fast  tottering  to  the  grave, 
As  his — the  boon — but  once  cold  Death, 

With  iron  hand  will  crave. 
Still  all  this  "  once  "  must  yield  before, 

His  harsh  and  heavy  stroke  ; 
While  round  their  heads  his  shadows  wreath, 

The  doom  by  heaven  spoke. 
But  those  most  pure  he  bears  away 

To  climes  more  brightly  fair, 
Where  beams  in  beauty  every  ray, 

That  dares  to  venture  there. 
Where  streams  of  living  waters  glide 

Through  beds  ot  pearly  sand, 
And  birds  with  glitt'ring  pinions  wide- 

Flit  o'er  the  happy  land. 
Where  shines  in  deep,  resplendent  hue 

The  ruby's  dazzling  red  ; 
Where  "jasper"  and  the  diamond  too 

A  vast  effulgence  spread. 
Where  "  emerald  "  and  sapphire  bido 

To  deck  the  princely  halls  ; 
Where  soft  luxuriance  swells  the  tide 

And  pleasure  never  palls. 
Where  u  buds  "  and  "  blossoms,"  each  a  gem, 

And  "  plants  "  together  glow 
And  sparkle  in  the  diadem 

That  crowns  Jehovah's  brow. 
Where  bleeding  hearts  and  pallid  checks, 

And  eyes  bedewed  with  tears, 
And  quiv'ring  lips  where  anguish  speaks, 

And  earthly  pains  and  fears  ; 


44 


Where  hoary  locks  and  trembling  limbs 

Worn  out  in  service  long, 
And  sight  that  ruthless  time  fast  dims 

With  naught  but  sorrow's  wrong, 
Are  never  known  ;  where  joys  supreme 

Light  with  their  radiance 
The  golden  streets  that  richly  beam 

With  heaven's  excellence. 


THE  STEAMSHIP  PRESIDENT. 


The  first  steamship  launched  on  the  ocean,  and  lost  in  its  first  and 
last  trip,  in  1841. 


They  left  their  native  land  and  home, 
To  breast  the  raging  ocean's  foam, 
While  many  an  eye  was  bathed  in  tears 
That  friends  might  parted  be  for  years, 
And  many  a  parent's  heart  beat  wild 
As  wafted  thence  a  darling  child. 
They  left  their  native  land  and  home, 
And  village  spire  and  city  dome, 
And  friends  beloved  and  kindred  dear, 
And  thought  theii  aching  hearts  to  cheer 
In  foreign  climes,  'mid  stranger  lands; 
Perchance  to  trace  the  burning  sands 
Or  rocky  hills  of  some  far  shore, 
From  all  most  dear  on  earth  they  tore. 
And  yet  within  the  ship  wrere  some 
Returning  to  their  childhood's  home. 
And  as  they  skimmed  the  deep  blue  waves 
They  little  knew  their  destined  graves, 
But  thought  ere  long  again  to  tread 
The  land  to  which  they  gladly  sped. 
They  wafted  on,  unwitting  harm, 
Unmindful  of  th'  impending  storm, 
While  not  a  single  sail  in  view 
Or  island  saw  the  jol!y  crew. 
But  oh,  by  Heaven  their  doom  was  sealed — 
Anon  the  rolling  thunders  pealed, 


46 


The  mighty  winds  rushed  on  in  power, 
Dark  clouds  did  o'er  the  vessel  lowtr  ; 
Forked  lightnings  scorched  the  lurid  air, 
Lit  the  rent  sails  with  vivid  glare  ; 
The  ocean  rocked,  its  wavea  rolled  high, 
And  dashed  the  ship  against  the  sky  ; 
The  wreathing  flames  around  them  raved, 
And  waters  wild  the  vessel  laved, 
While  all,  aghast,  in  suppliance  bent, 
Sank  with  the  steamship  President. 

Days  now  have  passed,  and  many  an  eye 
Has  sought  the  proud  mast  towering  high, 
And  many  a  heart  has  anxious  beat 
The  proud  ship  safe  arrived  to  greet ; 
But  all  in  vain  !     It  never  more 
Alas  !  can  reach  an  earth-trod  shore. 


Weeks  now  have  passed ;  still  comes  not  in 

The  ship,  nor  has  the  wrreck  been  seen. 

But  daily  one  fond  voice  is  heard, 

"  What  news  ?     What  news  ?     Again  no  word  I1'* 

"  None,  none,  my  lord !''  is  sad  replied. 

"  No  word  !"  the  mourning  father  cried. 


Long,  weary  months  have  now  passed  by, 
And  still  in  vain,  with  sunken  eye 
And  breaking  heart,  the  father  dear 
Seeks  from  his  long-lost  son  to  hear ; 
But  oh,  no  word  from  him  can  come ; 
He  lies  beneath  the  billows'  home, 

*It  is  said  these  words  were  daily  utte:  od  "by  a  feeble  and  almost 
frantic  lord  in  England,  as  lie  daily  went  to  the  Post  Office  lor  news 
of  his  lost  son. 


47 


And  not  a  soul  is  left  to  tell 
The  fate  that  has  to  him  befell ; 
Not  one  of  all  that  vessel  bore 
Can  tread  again  Old  England's  shore ; 
And  not  as  yet  one  trace  appears 
To  tell  what  each  too  rightly  fears. 


A  year's  slow  time  has  now  rolled  round, 
Nor  has  the  vessel's  wreck  been  found. 


48 


MY  GRANDFATHER. 

He  was  a  good  old  man,  but  could  not  stay ; 
He  has  been  called  from  earth  to  heaven  away, 
And  saints  have  met  him  with  their  songs  of  joy, 
And  on  his  breast  there  leans  an  angel-boy.* 
Grandsire  and  son  have  met — I  see  them  now, 
While  bliss  eternal  sparkles  on  each  brow  ; 
I  see  them  closely  wrapped  in  fond  embrace, 
While  beams  a  halo  bright  round  either  face ; 
And  saints  and  angels  gaze  upon  the  twain 
With  holy  transport.     God  himself  doth  deign 
To  call  with  His  loud  voice  on  all  the  choir 
To  ring  a  welcome  with  the  harp  and  lyre 
To  the  freed  soul  which  late  hath  conq'ring  come 
To  claim  a  seat  within  His  heavenly  home. 
I  see  the  gray-haired  man,  in  robes  of  white, 
In  glittering  robes  too  bright  for  mortal  sight ; 
And  on  his  head  I  see  a  diadem 
More  brilliant  than  the  finest  earthly  gem  ; 
And  on  his  forehead  all  the  hosts  of  heaven 
Can  read  the  words,  "  He  sinned,  but  is  forgiven." 

He  was  a  good  old  man — I  loved  him  well, 

And  prized  him  more  than  my  weak  words  can  tell ; 

And  long  methought  he  seemed  too  good  for  earth — 

He  was  my  grandsire,  and  1  felt  his  worth. 

But  he  has  left  us — we  no  more  can  hear 

Blest  counsel  from  the  lips  we  did  revere; 

He's  gone,  and  we  no  more  can  feel  the  spell 

His  holy  presence  wrought  ere  yet  the  knell 


Slu-iidan. 


49 


Of  death  had  sounded,  by  high  heaven's  decree, 

To  bid  him  to  a  fairer  destiny. 

Yes,  he  has  gone ;  yet  we  ere  long  shall  meet, 

And  sit  with  him  around  the  judgment  seat. 

Oh,  yes,  though  now  the  scalding  tear-drops  start, 

And  bitter  sighs  escape  our  sorrowing  heart; 

Though  he  has  left  an  aged  bosom  friend, 

Long  cherished  and  beloved,  to  weep  his  end  ; 

Though  children  far  away  are  doomed  to  hear 

The  sad,  expected  news,  and  drop  the  tear 

Of  silent  grief,  we  know  he  is  at  rest 

In  mansions  far  above,  amid  the  blest; 

We  know  'tis  vain  to  mourn,  for  though  in  dust 

He  lowly  lies,  his  soul  amid  the  just, 

In  sweetest  strains  of  harmony  and  love, 

Is  singing  praises  in  the  world  above. 

"We  know  though  he  a  friend  hath  been  to  us — 

A  parent-friend,  and  deep  we  feel  his  loss — 

That  we  may  soon  with  him  in  concert  join 

In  hallelujahs  to  the  Lamb-Divine. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  LITTLE  GEORGE  R S. 


For  his  mother. 


My  child  !  oh,  rny' child  !  why  so  soon  art  thou  gone 
To  regions  beyond  us,  to  mansions  unknown  ? 
Oh,  why,  my  dear  boy,  why  so  young  didst  thou  leave, 
In  thy  childhood's  bright  inorn,  -thy   iond   mother   to 
grieve  ? 

'Twere  but  yesterday,  seemingly,  thou  didst  appear 
The  picture  of  health ;  thou  wert  ruddy  and  fair; 
But  now  in  the  coffin,  with  the  sods  o'er  thy  head, 
They  number  my  boy  with  the  buried  and  dead. 

Aye,  low  in  the  earth  Ihey  thy  body  have  laid, 
Yet  thy  spirit  has  soared,  for  thy  soul  was  not  staid  ; 
And  over  thy  grave,  thou  late  joy  of  my  heart, 
Thy  lone  mother  weeps,  for  she  cannot  depart. 

My  eldest-born  child,  oh,  my  once  bright-eyed  one, 
Pray  tell  me  why  set,  ere  scarce  risen,  thy  sun  ? 
Oh,  why  wert  thou  plucked  from  thy  parent's  embrace, 
And  borne  far  away  an  unseen  world  to  grace  ? 

I  mourn  thee,  and  cannot  but  mourn  ;  but  'tis  vain 

I  know  to  regret  thee,  for  my  loss  is  thy  gain  ; 

I  know  thou  hast  'scaped  all  the  dangers  below, 

And  art  surer  of  heaven  ;  it  were  best  thou  shouldst  go. 

Then  my  child,  oh,  my  own  one  !  I'll  bid  thee  farewell 
Till  I  shall  be  summoned  with  my  lost  one  to  dwell ; 
Though  my  heart-strings  would   break  acd  my  bosom 

would  heave, 
'I'll  pray  I  may  cease  for  thy  absence  to  grieve. 


51 


THE  DAUGHTER  TO  HER  FATHER. 


My  father !  thou  art  sad  and  lone,  I  know  by  thy  sor- 
rowing sigh, 

And  by  the  stealing  tear-drop  that  gathers  in  thine  eye ; 

I  know  thy  heart  i*  like  to  break  'neath  the  chast'ning 
God  has  given  ; 

But,  father,  weep  no  more,  I  pray — my  mother  dwells  in 
heaven. 

My  mother  dwells  in  heaven  above ;  for  when  the  stars 

were  bright, 

And  all  below  was  beautiful  beneath  their  smiling  light ; 
When  evening  had  her  mantle  spread,  and  day  from  earth 

had  driven, 
J  heard  a  whisper  near — it  said,  "  Thy  mother  dwells  in 

heaven." 

And  father,  if  the  word  is  true  that  they  who  go  before 

us 
To  that  blest  land  so  far  beyond  the  sky  that's  beaming 

o'er  us, 
Do  ever  to  this  earth  return  and  round  the  loved  ones 

hover, 
Our  guardian-angel   she  is  now,   my  mother,    oh,  my 

mother  1 


How  beautiful  and  fair  a  world  ! 

And  yet  how  lonely,  too — 
Life  is  a  solitude  at  best ; 

Its  pleasures  are  but  few. 


TO  A  VERY  LITTLE  CHILD. 

Prattle,  prattle,  little  one  ! 

Tripping  light,  with  tiny  feet, 
Let  that  heart  beat  joyous  on, 

And  those  bright  eyes  smile,  my  sweet, 
Whilst  thou  may  ;  before  tbou  find 
Pleasure  leaves  a  sting  behind. 

Blithesome  'mid  the  flowers  stray, 
"Wafting  forth  their  sweet  perfume ; 

WThile  the  gentle  breezes  play, 
Pluck  the  fairest  ones  in  bloom ; 

But  beware  lest  now  thou  find 

Pleasure  leaves  a  sting  behind. 

On  that  flowret's  stem,  my  boy, 
Many  a  piercing  thorn  is  set ; 

Thus  in  every  mortal  joy 

Lurks  a  thorn  to  pierce ;  and  yet 

Many  hope  on  earth  to  find 

Pleasure  leaves  no  sting  behind. 


53 


TO  A A. 

Think  not  all  thy  hopes  will  be  realized  here  ; 

For  sadness  and  sorrow  are  everywhere  near ; 

But  know  thou  shalt  have  thy  due  share  of  earth's  weal, 

If  friendship  and  love  can  the  fountain  unseal. 

But,  dearest,  remember  that  dark  hours  are  ni^'h, 
In  the  footsteps  of  sunshine  clouds  lower  the  sky- 
Thus  ever  doth  sorrow  chase  pleasure  away, 
Though  the  darkness  of  night  oft  makes  brighter  the  day. 


54 


Though  faithless  I  did  seem  the  while, 
Thou  still  didst  share  my  he  >rt ; 

'Tvvas  thou  first  taught  me  how  to  love — 
Then  act  the  false  one's  part. 

But  oh,  a  scholar  far  more  apt 

In  love  than  in  deceit, 
My  little  art  now  vanishes 

When  we  together  meet. 

And  since  thou  plight'st  to  me  thy  troth, 

My  heart  is  thine  for  aye  ; 
So  love  shall  light  thy  path  through  life, 

Though  erst  so  dark  the  way. 

Then  let  us  don  the  mask  no  more 

Which  truth  has  laid  aside  ; 
'T would  ill  become  a  wedded  pair, 

Nor  grace  a  happy  bride. 


TO . 

As  Adam  could  not  happy  bide 
Without  companion  human, 

God  took  a  rib  from  'neath  his  side, 
And  made  for  him  a  woman. 

So  every  man  has  one  rib  less 

Than  when  at  first  created, 
Unless  he  seeks  some  fair  redress, 

And  is  by  woman  mated. 

Then  take  your  rib  back  to  y«>ur  breast, 
Or  you  are  maimed  for  life,  bir ; 

Man  is  imperfect  at  the  best 
Until  he  has  a  wife,  sir. 


50 


THE  PRESENT— A  SOUVENIR  QUILT. 

A  wish  for .    "Written  upon  a  block  reserved  for  the  purpose. 


This  souvenir  quilt  will  oft,  my  dear, 
Full  many  a  friend  recall  to  mind, 

Whose  every  wish  of  heart  sincere 
With  love  and  friendship  is  combined. 

May  love's  and  friendship's  sweetest  flowers 
Be  fondly  o'er  thy  pathway  strown  ; 

While  sunbeams  bask  through  joy-winged  hours 
Within  the  cot  thou  claim'st  thine  own 

Aye,  may  their  garland  brightly  beam 
Perennial  round  thy  forehead  fair, 

That  all  may  sip  their  sweet  perfume, 
And  feel  affection's  presence  there  I 


A  happy  wedded  pair  may  ihis  enshroud, 
When  winter  hovers  near  in  storm  and  cloud. 


57 


ELDER  SAFFORD. 


A  star  of  our  Zion  has  set ; 

'Twill  gladden  our  earth  nevermore ; 
We  mourn  for  its  loss  with  the  deepest  regret, 

Though  it  dawns  on  a  happier  shore. 

It  shines  'mid  the  Zion  above, 

Beyond  the  dark  regions  of  space  ; 
It  beams  with  the  rays  of  peace,  glory  and  lovo 

Which  through  the  dim  vista  we  trace. 

Its  beauty  will  there  ne'er  decline, 

But  brighter  and  purer  will  glow  ; 
Then  mourn  not  its  exit — 'tis  wrong  to  repine— 

'Twere  too  bright  for  this  drear  world  below. 

A  star  of  our  Zion  has  set — 

O'er  the  loss  of  a  friend  falls  a  tear ; 
For  the  pearl-drops  of  wisdom  we  ne'er  can  forget, 

From  the  lips  we  were  "wont  to  revere. 

A  star  of  our  Zion  has  set ; 

A  husband  and  father's  no  more  ; 
With  the  dear  and  departed  above  he  has  met, 

And  is  roaming  o'er  heaven's  fair  shore. 


58 


OH,  WILT  THOU  EVER  THINK  OF  ME  ? 


Oh,  wilt  thou  ever  think  of  me, 

When  I  ain  far  away  ? 
Aye,  when  thou  minglest  in  the  throng, 

Amid  the  glad  and  gay, 
Will  memory  ever  bring  to  mind 

One  absent  from  thy  side  ? 
And  turning  from  the  festive  throng, 

Wilt  thou  regret  thy  bride  ? 

Oh,  wilt  thou  ever  think  of  me 

When  I  am  from  thee  gone  ? 
When  the  red  daylight  fades  away, 

And  thou  art  sad  and  lone  ? 
Aye,  when  thou  feel'st  the  tender  spell 

Of  softening  twilight  power, 
Wilt  thou  not  then  revert  to  hor 

Thou  woo'd  in  life's  bright  hour  ? 

Oh,  wilt  thou  ever  think  of  me 

When  I  am  from  thee  fled  ? 
Aye,  when  this  form  is  lowly  laid 

Amid  the  silent  dead, 
Will  one  kind  thought  anon  be  found 

Lurking  within  thy  breast 
Of  her  who  loved  thee  well  while  yet 

She  was  on  earth  a  gue^t  ? 

Oh,  sometimes,  then,  pray  think  of  me, 
My  own  companion  dear, 


5<J 


And  o'er  my  absence  deign  to  drop 

A  sad  but  silent  tear. 
Aye,  may  remembrance  ever  find 

Some  glimmering  spark  is  left, 
Within  thy  breast,  of  love  for  her 

Of  whom  thou  art  bereft. 


60 


TO  MY  CHILD. 


My  darling,  thou  wert  born  to  die, 
Tet  erst  to  live,  hope,  smile  and  sigh— 
Wert  born  to  know  what  'tis  to  be 
A  child  of  frail  mortality. 
Sweet !  all  life's  changes  thou  must  learn, 
Sunshine  and  clouds  come  in  their  turn — 
One  moment  smiles  may  deck  thy  cheek, 
Another,  grief  thy  heart  may  break. 
Oh,  yes,  this  little  heart  of  thine 
Must  oft — full  oft,  I  fear — repine, 
And  these  bright  eyes  must  oft  be  wet 
With  tears  of  sorrow  and  regret. 
And  yet  for  smiles  and  sighs  alone 
Thou  wert  not  made,  my  little  one ; 
Thy  hands  must  ever  faithful  prove 
In  works  of  usefulness  and  love. 
Thy  words  a  healing  balm  must  be, 
For  thou  wert  made  for  sympathy  ; 
And  all  the  wisdom  to  thce  given 
Must  tend  to  lead  thy  way  to  heaven  ; 
For,  dearest  child,  far,  far  away 
There  is  a  better  land,  they  say; 
And  when  thy  work  of  life  is  o'er, 
And  time  to  thee  shall  be  no  more, 
An  angel-messenger  will  come 
To  bear  thee  to  thy  spirit  home — 
To  waft  thee  to  those  realms  of  joy, 
Where  bliss  is  known  without  alloy, 


61 


Where  life  is  as  the  sunshine  bright, 
Where  day  is  never  turned  to  night, 
Where  love  is  love  unceasing,  ever, 
And  where  friends  meet  no  more  to  sever; 
For  sin  and  death  and  pain  and  care 
And  sorrow  never  enter  there. 


TO  MY  LITTLE  MARY. 

My  little  Mary,  once  thy  mother,  too, 

Had  a  dear  mother,  fond  and  kind  as  thine, 

(E'er  sorrow  o'er  her  path  its  dark  wing  threw,) 
On  whose  warm  breast  she  softly  did  recline. 

But  oh,  those  blessed  years  have  long  since  passed 
For  scarce  her  tender  infant  days  had  fled, 

Ere  the  destroyer  smote  with  blasting  breath, 
And  laid  her  dearest  mother  with  the  dead. 


G3 


FOR  THE  BRIDE. 


By  her  friend  of  old. 


He  came,  but  has  gone,  yet  went  not  as  he  came  ; 

He  robbed  ere  he  left  us,  yet  we  cannot  him  blame; 

He  has  taken  away  from  our  village  its  pride, 

And  the  bridegroom  hath  pressed  to  his  bosom  his  bride. 

He  came,  but  has  gone — from  the  place  of  her  birth. 

The  place  she  held  dearest  of  any  on  earth, 

From  her  kindred  and  home  and  the  friends  that  were 

dear, 

He  has  taken  our  loved  one  his  cottage  to  cheer. 
And  he  tells  her  that  "  there,  in  their  own  happy  cot, 
The  words  he  has  spoken  will  ne'er  be  forgot — 
The  promises  made  to  the  girl  of  his  heart 
Will  never  be  broken  till  life  shall  depart." 
He  says,  ''  Like  a  blossom  or  plant  that  is  rare 
He  will  cherish  his  flower  with  tenderest  care ; 
Like  a  gem  that  is  costly,  with  price  above  measure, 
He'll  w^ear  next  his  bosom  his  soul's  dearest  treasure, 
Till  the  spoiler  shall  smite  with  his  poisonous  breath, 
And  the  ties  of  their  union  are  severed  by  death." 
He  came,  and  she's  left  us — the  bridal  is  o'er, 
And  the  friend  of  our  youth  we  may  never  Fee  more. 
She  has  left  all  the  scenes  to  her  memory  dear, 
With  a  smile  in  her  eye,  though  it  shone  through  a  tea1, 
And  has  gone  with  her  mate  like  a  bird  to  l;er  nest, 
And  thinks  to  be  happy  with  him  she  loves  best. 
As  a  friend,  then,  we  wish  (though  we  fear  that  'tis  vain) 
That  with  hini  she  shall  know  neither  sorrow  nor  pain  •, 
May  sad  disappointment  her  hopes  never  blight, 
But  joy,  like  the  sun,  gild  her  cot  with  its  light, 


Gi 

And  friends,  never  changing,  warm  hearted  and  kind, 
Where  all  now  are  strangers,  ere  long  may  she  find. 
And  when,  in  due  time,  'mid  her  household  appear 
Nearer  claims  on  her  love,  her  protection  and  care, 
*  With  their  sweet  cherub  faces  and  bright  beaming  eyes, 
May  they  prove  to  her  blessings  not  sent  in  disguise. 
With  their  soft  prattling  lips  and  their  infantile  mirth, 
As  they  sport  by  her  side  round   their  blest   cottage- 
hearth, 

May  they  cheer  her  fond  heart  ere  its  spring-time  has  fled, 
And  chase  from  her  eyelid  the  tear  it  would  shed  ; 
And  when  they  have  learned  from  the  mother  they  love 
That  worth  and  that  wisdom  which  come  from  above, 
May  they  glad  the  lone  days  of  her  summer  of  life, 
And  lighten  the  burdens  with  which  it  is  rife ; 
And  as  the  chill  years  of  drear  autumn  shall  come, 
May  they  smooth  the  rough  pathway  that  leads  to  her 

home. 

Oh,  may  she  be  happy !     May  no  cloud  of  sorrow 
At  the  part  she  has  chosen  bedim  her  bright  morrow. 
Oh,  may  she  be  happy  !     May  no  tear  of  woe 
Or  sigh  of  regret  dim  her  vision  below  ; 
And  when  she  has  reached  her  last  haven  of  rest, 
May  it  be  in  the  land  of  the  good  and  the  blest, 
In  that  far  spirit-land,  'mid  the  angers  of  light, 
And  the  souls  of  the  saints  "who  have  fought  the  good 

fight." 

Oh,  there  may  the  notes  from  her  own  harp  arise 
To  join  the  soft  music  that  rolls  through  the  skies ; 
Oh,  there  may  she  swell  with  her  own  voice  the  strain 
That  tells  of  her  triumph,  her  glory,  her  gain  ; 
And  there  may  I  meet  with  my  youth's  early  friend, 
And  chant  the  glad  lay  that  our  spirits  shall  blend, 
Where  all  the  sad  past  \\ill  be  ever  forgiven, 
For  love  is  the  essence  that  make.4?  it  a  heaven. 


65 


A  MOTHER'S  ADDRESS  TO  HER  CHILD. 


Suggested  by  seeing  a  child  admiring  tbe  boaventy  luminaries. 


My  pretty  one,  upturn  thine  eye 

To  yonder  blue,  ethereal  sky. 

See,  countless  stars  are  from  it  peeping, 

Or  'neath  its  azure  folds  are  sleeping. 

And  thou,  a  star  as  bright  as  they, 
My  babe,  may  shine  some  future  day, 
A  little  silvery  star  at  even, 
Thou,  too,  may'st  beam  in  yonder  heaven. 

Or  when  long  years  have  come  and  gone 
And  here  on  earth  has  set  thy  sun, 
To  weary  pilgrims,  wand'ring  far, 
Thou  yet  may'st  be  the  guiding  star. 

Oh,  yes,  thy  teachings,  high  and  pure, 
May  bide  while  time  and  tide  endure  ; 
Thy  spirit  rays  of  light  may  shed, 
When  thou  art  numbered  with  the  dead. 


G6 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  LITTLE  ELIZABETH  W 

Sweet  little  prattler,  gone  so  soon  from  earth, 
Too  pure,  too  innocent  to  linger  here, 

Thy  spirit  fled  before  it  scarce  had  birth, 
Exhaled  like  dew  to  some  far  brighter  sphere. 

Yet  oh,  return  from  thy  yon  spirit  home, 

And  soothe,  as  thou  wert  wont,  with  fond  caress; 

Thy  parents'  arms  are  open — dear  one,-come, 
Thy  life- warm  cheek  we  fain  again  would  press. 

Sweet  little  flower,  come  back — she  cannot  hear ; 

An  angel  messenger  hath  borne  our  love 
From  us,  and  we  are  left  with  none  to  cheer, 

Till  we  shall  mingle  in  the  land  above. 

Fair  child,  adieu,  then  ! — Oh,  too  hard  the  thought ; 

It  wiings  with  giief  my  bosom's  very  core ; 
Adieu  !     With  what  deep  anguish  is  it  fraught, 

For  we  shall  see  thee,  darling  one,  no  more. 

Still,  little  spirit-star,  we  beg  thy  ray 

To  softly  light  us  onward  to  the  sky  ; 
Oh,  ofttimes,  hover  near  our  dreary  way, 

Till  we  shall  meet  in  lovelier  realms  on  high. 

Sweet  li:tle  flower,  plucked  from  thy  mother's  breast, 
Like  a  fair  bud  plucked  from  its  parent  tree, 

Thou  now  hast  found  in  Jesus'  bosom  rest 
As  pure  and  lasting  as  eternity. 


67 


ON  THE   RECEIPT  OF  A  BIT  OF  CAKE  FROM  A 
NEWLY- WEDDED  PAIR. 

As  fair  as  their  cake 

Be  their  fortunes  through  life; 

He  as  goodly  a  husband — 
She  as  charming  a  wife. 

They  have  launched  their  glad  bark,  full  spread  is  ita 
sail, 

On  the  sea  of  life's  comforts  and  cares ; 
May  they  never  be  tempest-tossed — gentle  the  gale 

That  wafts  o'er  its  bed  them  and  theirs. 

May  ne'er  a  rough  billow  nor  quicksand  appear, 

Nor  false  lights  to  allure  them  astray ; 
And  when  to  the  Eden  of  Edens  they  near, 

May  it  be  in  the  brightness  of  day. 

With  a  pilot  trustworthy  to  guide  at  the  helm, 

To  those  moorings  above  let  them  ride, 
And  saiely  cast  anchor  in  love's  brighter  realm, 

Where  no  shipwrecks  or  dangers  betide. 


TO  . 

Hymen  has  claimed  another  flower, 
To  grace  his  garland,  deck  his  bower. 


08 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MY  DECEASED  BROTHER'S 
FRIEND. 


Is  she,  too,  gone  ?    Is  her  last  farewell  breathed  ? 

Is  her  young  brow  by  heaven's  garland  wreathed  ? 

Alas  1  her  friends  and  kindred  now  must  mourn, 

Their  fairest  flower  is  from  their  bosom  torn. 

Lavinia,,  my  brother's  sister-friend, 

Did  heaven  for  thy  soul  an  angel  send  ? 

Oh,  form  most  beauteous  bright,  with  seraph  wing, 

Dost  thou.  too,  now  a  song  of  glory  sing  ? 

And  hast  thou  seen  in  joy  him  i.herc  ab  >ve, 

With  shining  face,  beaming  eternal  love  ? 

Speak  of  thy  meet:ng,  fair  one — pure  one,  say, 

Was  not  his  welcome  sweet  in  heavenly  ray? 

Tell  to  us  much  of  that  blest  land  on  high, 

Where  friends  do  meet  with  friends  beyond  the  sky  ; 

Where  ne'er  a  cloud  doth  flit  before  the  sight, 

And  noonday  brightness  never  turns  to  night. 

Too,  of  my  mother  speak — him  thou  heard'st  tell 

That  she  did  in  those  balmy  regions  dwell. 

Said  he  aright  ?     One  low,  soft  answer  deign, 

Does  she  amid  angelic  spirifs  reign  ? 

Oh,  hast  thou  met  her  in  that  joyous  band 

Which  walks  the  golden  streets,  the  pearly  strand  ? 

Oh,  hast  thou  met  her  in  that  rapturous  choir 

Which  tunes  in  harmony  the  heavenly  lyre  ? 

Does  she  with  them  in  hallelujahs  join, 

Bedecked  in  robes  of  righteousness  divine  ? 

Tell  me,  I  pray,  if  but  in  whispers  low 

Thou  niayes1.  breathe  of  weal  where  sorrows  flow. 


Tell  me,  I  pray,  if  but  in  stillest  hour 
Thy  voice  is  heard — oh,  let  me  feel  its  power. 
To  all  thy  weeping  friends,  who  mourn  thee  gone, 
Breathe  one  low  word.... tell  them  where  thou  hast 
flown!  « 

And  say  who  hast  thou  met  in  yon  blest  heaven, 
Where  dwell  earth's  lov'd  and  lost the  Lamb's  for- 
given I 


70 


A  BALLAD  OF  THE  OLDEN  TIME. 


We  met,  but  soon  as  lovers  parted  ; 

He  set  sail  for  some  far  shore  ; 
I  thought  that  ne'er  could  prove  false-hearted 

He  whom  then  I  did  adore. 
But,  list  ye  maidens  fair  and  pretty, 

Man  heeds  not  the  vows  he  makes: 
He  will  sport  with  youth  and  beauty, 

He  will  spurn  the  heart  he  breaks. 
He  will  sport,  etc. 

Two  long,  long  years  flew  o'er  my  head, 

No  tidings  from  him  I  received, 
And  many  were  the  tears  I  shed, 

And  many  were  the  hours  I  grieved. 
But  in  his  honor  still  I  trusted, 

Still  I  thought  his  love  the  same, 
And  though  all  my  hopes  seemed  blasted, 

Yet  him  never  did  I  blame. 
And  though  all  my,  etc. 

No,  I  loved  him  too  sincerely, 

But,  alas  !  he  sought  me  not; 
lie  has  wed  a  fairer  beauty, 

And  by  him  am  I  forgot. 
See  my  eye  grows  dull  and  heavy, 

And  my  pulse  is  sinking  fast. 
Of  this  life  I  have  grown  weary; 

May  we  meet  in  heaven  at  last. 
Of  this  life,  etc. 


71 


Death  !  I  hail  thee  as  a  blessing, 

Life  hath  now  no  charms  for  me; 
Naught  on  earth  is  worth  possessing, 

To  thy  cold  embrace  I  flee. 
But,  once  more,  ye  maidens,  hear  me, 

Trust  not  in  the  vows  man  makes: 
He  will  sport  with  youth  and  beauty, 

Then  will  spurn  the  heart  he  breaks. 
He  will  sport,  etc.  1837. 


SPRING. 


Spring  is  fretting  and  blustering,  and  washing  her  face, 
And  making  her  toilet,  to  meet  us  with  grace; 
And  when  she's  arrayed,  with  all  things  to  her  mind, 
Her  smiles  will  be  bland,  and  her  greeting  be  kind. 

Haste,    then,  gentle  Spring,  cease  thy  frowns  and  thy 

tears; 

Thy  votaries  wait  thee  with  welcoming  cheers. 
Haste,  beauty,  and  don  thy  fresh  mantle  of  green, 
And  Nature  will  crown  thee  her  emerald  queen. 


MY  BIBLE. 

Profane  not  this  gift, 
'Tis  a  gem  of  rare  worth; 

The  most  peerless  treasure 
We  find  on  the  earth. 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  DITTY  AND  A  COUNTRY  SLEIGH 
RIDE  AND  FEAST. 


Huzza  !  ho,  huzza,!  let  us  get  in  a  fix 
For  a  ride,  for  to-day  is  indeed  forty-six  ; 
Come,  come,  all  ye  lovers  of  frolic  and  fun, 
Lay  aside  every  care,  for  a  new  year's  begun. 

Here  we  go  !  see  us  go  !  sober  lasses  and  lads 
Stay  at  home  if  you  will,  with  your  mammas  and  dads, 
While  we  fly  over  earth  like  a  bird  on  the  wing, 
And  the  air  with  the  shouts  of  the  merry  doth  ring. 

On  we  go  !  on  we  go  !  swift  o'er  hill  and  o'er  dale, 
Like  a  vessel  at  sea,  with  fair  wind  and  full  sail, 
And  the  ladies,  God  bless  them  !  all  sad  thoughts  beguile, 
Ever  ready  to  offer  a  word  and  a  smile. 

On,  on,  boys  !  delay  not,  till  we're  gathered  around 
The  bright  blazing  hearth  where  good  cheer  doth  abound. 
See  !  the  table  is  groaning,  the  board  is  full  spread  ; 
Who's  so  soulless  he  would  to  life's  pleasures  be  dead  ? 

To  the  banquet  we've  come — be  seated,  do,  please, 
'Tis  but  meet  that  the  board  of  its  burden  we  ease ; 
Be  civil — there's  plenty  for  all — friends,  no  strife, 
Every  lad  for  his  lass,  every  man  for  his  wife. 

Will  you  have  some  of  that  ?  do  be  helped,  pray,  fo  this,- 
Na\,  be  not  in  haste  there,  my  fun-loving  Miss ! 
The  music's  not  ready — the  dance's  not  begun  ; 
Soon,  soon  you  the  laurel  ot  grace  shall  have  won. 


73 

The  feast  is  now  finished,  and  dainty  we've  grown — 
'Tis  strange  that  such  hunger  so  soon  should  have  flown; 
Where's  our  glass  ?     Here's  good  luck  to  our  friends,  aye 

and  foes : 
Hurra  !  hip,  nurra  !  will  you  join?     Here  she  goes  ! 

Fair  lady,  start  not !  ihis  was  once  from  the  sky — 
Take  a  draught,  it  will  ne'er  cause  a  tear  or  a  sigh; 
From  the  pure  limp  d  stream  may  our  drink  ever  come, 
'Tis  like  diamond  to  dust — 'tis  like  heaven  to  rum. 

Now,  on  with  the  dance,  'tis  but  innocent  sport ; 
Have  a  polka  or  jig,  and,  in  fine,  every  sort; 
In  joy  let  the  moments  fly — for  joy  they  were  given — 
New  Year's  comes  no  more  till  eighteen  forty-seven 


THE  DESPONDENT  MOTHER'S  PJIAYER. 


Drear  is  the  night — the  tempest  howling,  blows 

A  chill  on  all  without  and  all  within ; 
But  drearer  yet,  alas  !  the  heart  that  knows 

No  friend,  nor  has  the  power  a  friend  to  win. 

Blow  on,  ye  winds,  and  all  ye  storms  rage  on ! 

Ye're  but  a  feint  ol  \\  hat  my  heart  doth  feel. 
There  seems  no  bliss  for  me  below  the  sun  ; 

Dark,  gloomy  bodings  round  my  spirit  steal. 

These  spectre-visions  scarce  thy  winning  face, 
My  cherub  babe,  drives  irom  my  darkened  soul ; 

Wild,  wandering  thought-  flit  through  my  brain  apnco, 
And  tott'ring  reason  holds  but  weak  control. 

Oh,  God  forbid  my  child  should  ever  know 
The  dark  repinings  that  have  marked  my  lot ! 

Alone,  unloved,  through  this  broad  world  to  go, 
With  scarce  the  gleaming  of  one  sunny  spot. 

Renew  my  heart ;  refresh  it  with  thy  grace, 
Great  Father,  let  me  feel  thee  kindly  near ; 

These  gloomy  phantoms  from  my  spirit  chase  ; 
For  my  child's  sake,  make  my  dark  life  less  drear. 

Oh,  make  me  calm,  my  precious  charge  to  train; 

Counsel  and  comfort  fit  me  her  to  give — 
My  twining  lamb  doth  me  to  life  enchain ; 

Cast  me  not  off;  for  her  oh  let  me  live  1 


75 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  DEMOCRACY. 


Before  election  1844. 


Our  country  has  roused  her — her  proud  bird  uncaged  ; 
On  liberty's  soil  a  war  has  been  waged  ; 
And  ne'er  will  the  contest  her  brave  children  yield 
Till  the  crestfallen  foe  shall  have  fled  from  the  field. 

The  eagle's  broad  pinions  are  spread  in  the  sky, 
The  gay  "  stars  and  stripes  "  are  now  waving  on  high, 
While  the  Democrat  ranks,  in  their  glory  and  might, 
All  arrayed  for  the  battle,  rush  on  to  the  fight. 

No  selfish  ambition  has  goaded  them  on ; 
For  no  base  usurper  their  swords  shall  be  drawn — 
No  "high  tariff"  laws  would  they  palm  on  the  nation; 
But  "protection"  to  all,  and  a  firm  "annexation." 

"  Equal  rights  to  all  men  "  is  the  war-cry  they  boast, 
Which  is  echoed  from  mountain,  hill,  valley  and  coast, 
As  onward  advancing,  the  mighty  hosts  swell, 
Who  ere  long  the  news  of  their  triumph  shall  tell. 

By  "  Young  Hickory's  "*  self  is  led  on  the  brave  band, 

To  rescue  their  country  from  tyranny's  hand  ; 

And  with  truth  for  their  helmet  and   right  for  their 

shield, 
The  weapons  of  courage  with  valor  they'll  wield. 


Polk. 


76 

And  when  they  the  foemen  in  battle  have  met, 
And  the  g  ad  shouts  of  victory  ring  through  their  set, 
The  woe  egone  Whi^s,  who  have  hugged  the  last  lay 
Of  their  bubble  of  hope,  shall  retreat  in  dismay. 

And  Erin's  brave  sons,  who  their  country  have  fled, 
For  the  land  which  our  forefathers  fought  for  and  bled, 
Shall  rind  them  a  home  mid  the  equal  and  free, 
And  the  long-promised  joys  of  our  liberty  see. 

Hurra,  then,  for  Polk,  he's  the  man  of  the  nation, 

For  Oregon,  too,  and  Texas'  fleet  annexation ; 

For  Dallas  hurra  !  he's  a  twig  of  the  tree, 

Of  that  staunch-hearted  emblem,  the  "  Old  Hickory." 

And  don't  let's  forget  Wright's  the  man  for  New  York. 

We  who  are  in  favor  of  Dallas  and  Polk ; 

He's  a  chief  among  men,  a  bright  star  of  our  land, 

So  for  him  go  three  cheers  from  our  brave,  gallant  band. 

Now,  let's  drink  a  toast  to  America's  daughters, 
Our  Spartan-like  fair  ones  this  side  the  broad  waters, 
For  though  haste  they  from  combat,  our  glory  they'll 

sing, 
And  thus  to  true  valor  an  offering  bring. 

Once  more — to  sweet  freedom  let's  fill  up  the  cup, 

'Tis  heaven's  own  nectar  alone  that  we  sup  ; 

Hard  cider  we'll  yield  to  our  sad-visaged  foe,* 

Lest  their  spirits  should  sink  when  their  coon  is  laid  low. 

For  "  three  times  and  out  "t  is  as  old  as  the  hills, 
And  the  fowls  of  the  air  are  now  whetting  their  bills 


*  Hard  cider  was  the  pretended  Whig  drink  at  that  time, 
t  I  think  this  year  was  the  third  time  the  opposing  candidate  for 
the  Presidency  had  been  up  for  the  office. 


77 

To  peck  at  his  dust  when  his  death-knell  has  rung, 
And  his  dirge  by  the  foes  of  fair  freedom  is  sung. 

Now,  to  strangers  and  exiles  our  goblet  we'll  drain, 
And  welcome  them  home  to  our  own  sunny  plain ; 
An  asylum  to  all,  their  home-country  'twill  be, 
The  "  City  of  Refuge,"  where  thousands  may  flee. 


78 


AFTEE  ELECTION. 
"  How  are  the  mighty  fallen." 

We've  conquered  !     We've  conquered  I 

On  field  and  on  flood, 
The  land  of  our  triumphs 

Is  deluged  in  blood. 
Yet  let  us  tread  light 

On  the  dust  of  the  dead, 
As  onward  our  victors 

From  conquest  are  led. 

We've  conquered  1     We've  conquered  I 

Again  Freedom  smiles 
On  our  hills  and  our  vales, 

Our  mountains  and  wilcls  ; 
And  glad  hearts  are  gay 

'Neath  the  lustre  she  pours 
On  the  land  of  our  fathers, 

Columbia's  shores. 

We've  conquered  !     We've  conquered  1 

And  no  more  is  heard 
The  war-cry  which  thousands 

Of  freemen  has  stirred. 
And  "  plenty"  and  "  peace" 

In  our  land  again  reign, 
For  the  mighty  are  fallen, 

Their  chieftain  is  slain. 


79 

Let  the  clarion's  notes 

Ring  the  air,  as  they  swell, 
On  the  wings  of  the  wind, 

The  glad  news  let  them  tell. 
Let  our  hosts  lift  a  shout, 

For  our  country  is  saved — 
True  liberty's  heroes 

Her  foemen  have  braved. 

Our  arms  are  triumphant ! 

Let  the  cannon's  loud  roar 
Re-echo  the  sound 

O'er  Atlantic's  far  shore. 
Let  the  voice  of  her  thunders 

Sweep  the  isles  of  the  sea, 
For  the  mighty  are  fallen — 

Our  country  is  free  ! 

We've  conquered  !     "We've  conquered  1 

Let  the  arrogant  mourn, 
For  the  down-trodden  poor 

From  their  fetters  have  torn. 
Yet  let  us  tread  light 

On  the  dust  of  the  dead, 
As  onward  our  victors 

In  triumph  are  led. 

Aye*,  let  us  tread  light — 

Yet,  freemen,  arise  ! 
Let  the  voice  of  thanksgiving 

Ascend  to  the  skies. 
To  heaven  alone 

Is  our  gratitude  due; 
For  heaven  has  aided 

The  honest  and  true. 


30 


TO  IRELAND. 


Thou  gem  of  the  ocean, 

Thou  fond  home  of  the  brave, 
How  long,  oh,  loved  Erin, 

Shall  the  tyrant  enslave  ? 


Oh,  Ireland,  sweet  Ireland, 

When  shall  thy  sons  be  free  ? 
When  shall  thy  fetters  fall,  and  thou 

Hail  thy  grand  Jubilee  ? 

When  shall  thy  verdant  turf  be  trod 

By  freemen  of  thy  soil  ? 
And  they  beneath  a  foreign  yoke 

No  longer  grudging  moil  ? 

When  wilt  thou  shine  in  freedom's  light, 

A  nation  of  the  earth, 
Whose  noble  sons  shall  proudly  boast 

Their  lineage  and  birth. 

Where  honor,  valor,  science,  art,         % 
Reign  o'er  thy  wave-girt  sod, 

And  Christian  hands  and  Christian  hearts 
Pay  tithes  to  none  but  God  ? 

Oh,  Ireland  !     Loved  Ireland  ! 

Near  be  thy  jubilee, 
When  thou  the  glorious  name  shall  boast, 

The  Island  of  the  Free ! 


81 


ENNA  AND  WILLIE  ;  OR,  YOUNG  LOVE. 

Eight  summers  scarce  had  passed  o'er  her  fair  head 

When  her  sick  mother's  worn  and  wasted  frame 
Rested,  at  length,  amid  the  quiet  dead, 

And  sorrow  to  her  young  and  tried  heart  came. 
'Twas  her  first  piercing  soul-grief,  and  she  shed 

Such  bitter  tears  a  stoic  could  but  feel 
Pity  for  that  fair  child.     But  each  one  said 

That  doubtless  soothing  Time  ere  long  would  heal 
The  bruised  spirit  of  our  household  pet, 
And  aid,  at  least,  in  part,  her  to  forget. 

I  turned  unto  the  book  of  "Holy  Writ," 

And  read  with  her  each  promise  from  its  page, 
Till  from  her  youthful  brow  the  shade  would  flit 

And  she  would  dry  her  tears — for,  of  her  age, 
She  seemed  most  easily  to  comprehend 

The  meaning  of  the  words  to  some  so  blind, 
And^,  daily,  we  could  see  our  flower  mend, 

From  the  effects  of  time  and  truth  combined, 
Till  to  her  lilied  cheek  the  rose's  hue 
Returned,  and  tinged  it  as  it  erst  did  do. 

But  sorrow  came  again  with  lowering  cloud  : 

The  child's  remaining  parent  sickened  sore, 
Till,  by  the  reaper  Death,  his  head  was  bowed 

And  she  could  look  upon  his  face  no  more. 
Yet  in  this  second  crushing  weight  of  grief 

She  turned  her  dimmed  eyes  to  the  Orphan's  Friend, 
And  prayed  to  him  to  give  her  heart  relief, 

And  resignation  to  her  spirit  send. 
And,  truly,  God,  methought,  her  prayer  did  hear — 
No  more  she  murmured,  nor  did  flow  the  tear. 


82 


Yet  still  I  could  but  mark  that  passing  time, 

No  zest  for  childhood's  sports  brought  to  her  now 
She  seemed  a  being  of  some  other  clime, 

As  slowly  thinned  her  cheek  and  paled  her  brow. 
And  her  sweet  voice  grew  tremulous  and  low, 

Till  it  was  scarcely  louder  than  a  breath  ; 
Each  day  her  blithesome  step  grew  weak  and  slow, 

And  then  we  knew  the  seal  of  all  was  death. 
Longer  our  flower  would  have  bloomed  on  earth, 
Could  she  have  given  voice  to  her  heart's  dearth. 

We  laid  her  in  the  churchyard  by  the  graves 

And  moldering  forms  of  those  she  pined  to  greet ; 
And  o'er  her  little  form  the  willow  waves, 

And  the  wild  rose  and  honeysuckle  meet, 
And  gentle  winds  wake  music  soft  and  low, 

As  sweep  they  o'er  the  turf  upon  her  breast, 
And  gay  birds  carol,  while  the  green  trees  throw 

Their  sheltering  arms,  as  if  to  guard  her  rest. 
There  undisturbed  and  sweetly  sleeps  our  flower, 
No  more  a  dark'ning  cloud  doth  o'er  her  lower. 

•r 
Still,  daily,  at  the  quiet  sunset  time, 

A  dark-eyed  youth  with  noble  brow  is  seen — 
Scarce  hidden  by  the  dusk,  and  running  vine, 

And  willow  boughs — to  kneel  with  sober  mien, 
And  scatter  flowers,  fresh  gathered  and  begemmed 

With  crystal  drops — not  dew,  nor  from  the  skies, 
But  drops  that  drooping  lids  awhile  have  stemmed, 

Lest  they  should  fall  before  unpitying  eyes — 
Over  her  early  grave,  where  every  joy 
Seems  with  her  buried,  to  her  lover-boy. 

From  very  infancy  he  was  her  mate — 
In  every  childish  sport  was  by  her  side, 

Her  champion,  if  evil  lay  in  wait, 

And  bravely  fought  he  for  his  "  little  bride." 


83 


And  he  would  picture  in  her  willing  ear 
Bright  scenes  of  future  bliss,  when  he,  a  man, 

Should,  wondrous,  make  this  wicked  earthly  sphere 
A  Paradise  after  his  own  wise  plan. 

Oh,  he  would  be  so  kind  and  good,  he  said, 

No  tears  but  those  of  joy  her  eyes  should  shed. 

The  home  he'd  build  for  her  would  be  so  grand: 

The  finest  pictures  on  its  walls  be  hung, 
Gathered  from  this  and  from  the  olden  land — 

Of  which  he'd  something  read  for  one  so  young — 
The  fairest  flowers  should  in  his  garden  grow, 

And  all  around  should  be  broad,  shady  trees, 
Where  pretty  birds  would  ever  come  and  go; 

And  everything  he'd  have  her  heart  to  please. 
He'd  be  so  rich  when  he  a  man  became, 
She  ne'er  should  want  a  thing  her  lips  could  name. 

And  deeper  grew  his  love  as  years  flew  by; 

And  when  dim  shadows  fell  upon  her  face, 
His  young  heart  grieved  to  see  her  sunken  eye, 

And  he  would  seek  her  sorrow  to  efface; 
And  when,  perchance,  would  lightly  flit  a  smile 

On  her  fair  cheek,  caused  by  his  winning  words, 
And  actions  kind,  his  pulse  would  leap  the  while, 

And  untold  joy  would  thrill  its  answering  chords. 
And  when  time  came  that  she  no  more  could  hear 
His  gentle  tones,  life  lost  for  him  its  cheer. 

Now,  wise  ones,  claiming  no  prophetic  ken, 

Whisper  sad  words  as  he  doth  pass  them  by — 
Ere  long,  the  wild  wind-harp  will  wake  again 

A  dirge  above  the  spot  where  he  shall  lie ; 
For  daily  wanes  in  his  dark  eye  the  light, 

And  wasting  is  his  frame  with  grief's  decay; 
His  brow  is  paled,  his  check  grows  thin  and  white, 

And  slower  lag  his  footsteps  day  by  day. 


84 


Soon  he  shall  follow  where  his  lost  one  lies — • 
His  longing  soul  shall  join  hers  in  the  skies. 

Thus  grief  may  dry  the  blood  in  the  young  heart 

That  mourns  its  idol,  and  may  chill  the  veins, 
And  wither  for  the  grave  the  earthly  part 

Of  the  child-lover,  as  he  scarce  retains 
The  shadow  of  a  wish  to  longer  stay, 

Where  hope  and  joy  are  banished  from  the  breast; 
Till  the  tired  soul,  at  length,  shall  flee  away 

And  soar  to  mansions  where  its  wings  may  rest. 
There,  unrcmembered  of  its  sorrow  here, 
How  beautiful  must  youthful  love  appear. 


THE  BIRTH  OF  SLANDER. 

For  a  physician  Envy  sent, 

As  she  with  awful  pain  was  rent; 

While  her  kind  helpmate,  Jealousy, 

Stood  looking  on  in  ecstasy. 

The  doctor  came,  with  greatest  speed, 

With  medicine  and  tool  for  need; 

And  all  the  neighborhood  rushed  in, 

To  learn  the  cause  of  such  a  din. 

But,  quick  as  thought — or  nearly  so-  - 

The  company  began  to  grow 

As  talkative,  and  happy,  too, 

As  though  they  did  a  lost  friend  view; 

While  Jealousy,  unconscious,  stood, 

As  in  a  thinking  attitude. 

"  My  dearest,  you  are  rather  sad 

For  one  who  lately  was  so  glad; " 

Now  Envy  said,  "but  that  the  child 

A  fine  girl  is  can't  be  denied. 

Had  I  have  borne  a  son,  my  love, 


85 


It  would  not  half  as  faithful  prove 

As  this,  for  well  you  know  our  sex 

Can  better  please,  and  better  vex, 

Those  whom  they  choose— you  understand 

'Twas  Eve  who  got  the  upper  hand, 

Not  Adam— so,  pray  do  not  fear, 

We're  bless' d  in  such  a  daughter  dear." 

Well,  soon  the  child  was  passed  around, 
And  all  caressed,  with  love  profound, 
The  little,  sprightly  "innocent," 
As  though  they  were  on  pleasure  bent, 
Save  one,  who,  silent,  gazed  to  see 
Proud  Envy's  darling  protegee. 

An  hour  passed  by,  the  child  was  named, 

And  through  the  streets  the  news  was  famed 

Of  youthful  Slander's  name  and  birth, 

A  gift  so  precious  here  on  earth; 

When,  loud,  an  agonizing  cry 

Worse  than  a  death-groan,  pierced  the  sky. 

Each  turned,  to  find  from  whence  the  shriek, 

When  each  would  fain  his  wonder  speak: 

"  The  little  sprite  has  teeth — most  strange; 

And  poison's  in  the  pretty  range; 

And  eyes,  like  balls  of  fire  they  glare; 

And,  lo  !  her  head — the  snake-like  hair; 

And  hissings  fill  the  sulphured  room. 

But  whence  that  awful  cry;  from  whom?" 

'Twas  from  the  one  who  gazed  to  see, 

In  silence,  Envy's  protegee. 

A  friend  had  bidden  her  to  take 

The  pretty  child,  "  for  friendship's  sake," 

And  she  for  friendship's  sake  obeyed; 

When,  suddenly,  her  breath  was  stayed 

And  from  her  bosom  clotted  gore 

In  black,  thick  streams  did  fearful  pour; 

While  Jealousy  and  Envy  smiled 

To  see  the  work  of  their  loved  child. 


80 


And  quick  rushed  in  to  heal  the  wound. 

But  all  in  vain — too  dire,  too  deep 

The  poison  pierced — she  craved  death's  sleep. 


THE  TWIN  SISTERS  :    FRIENDSHIP  AND  LOVE. 


Friendship  and  Love  walked,  hand  in  hand, 
Over  the  earth  with  magic  wand; 
And  where'er  their  white  feet  trod, 
Sprang  sweet  flowers  from  the  sod. 

Ever  going  on.     One  day 
A  widow's  hut  lay  in  their  way. 
Grim  want  within  its  walls  did  dwell; 
Through  many  a  chink  the  wind  blew  chill. 
Ragged,  freezing,  gaunt,  and  starving; 
'Round  the  dying  embers  hov'ring, 
Sireless  babes  and  once  proud  wife 
Were  eking  out  a  cheerless  life. 
Love  and  Friendship  raised  a  hand, 
And  touched  the  hut  with  magic  wand. 
Warmth  then  cheered  the  widow's  hearth, 
And  plenty  took  the  place  of  dearth. 

Passing  on,  they  overtook 

A  maiden  with  a  careworn  look. 

Sad  and  sunken  was  her  eye; 

From  her  bosom  came  a  sigh. 

Friendless,  homeless,  weak  and  weary, 

Earth  to  her  was  ever  dreary. 

Love  and  Friendship  raised  a  hand, 

And  touched  her  with  their  magic  wand: 

Joy  relit  her  clouded  sky; 

Gloom  no  more  bedimmed  her  eye; 


87 


But,  with  home  and  friendship  blest, 
Cankering  care  forsook  her  breast. 

Onward  still,  upon  their  road, 

Came  they  to  a  dark  abode. 

Low,  within,  one,  racked  with  pain, 

On  his  tiresome  couch  was  lain. 

Love  and  Friendship  raised  a  hand, 

And  touched  him  with  their  magic  wand. 

They  smoothed  his  pillow,  bathed  his  brow, 

Fanned  his  cheek,  with  hectic  glow; 

Raised  to  his  parched  lips  the  cup 

With  cooling  draught,  that  he  might  sup. 

His  pain  was  eased;  he  sank  to  sleep; 

Yet  o'er  him  still  they  watch  did  keep, 

And  nursed  him  gently  day  by  day, 

Till  pain  and  sickness  fled  away. 

Then,  again,  they  onward  went. 

A  man,  whose  frame  with  grief  was  bent, 

With  withered  cheek  and  hoary  head, 

Overtook  they,  as  they  sped. 

Lone,  forsaken,  broken-hearted; 

Wife  and  children,  all,  departed, 

With  none  to  lean  on  in  old  age, 

Life  to  him  was  one  dark  page. 

Love  and  Friendship  raised  a  hand, 

And  touched  him  with  their  magic  wand. 

By  cheering  word  and  kindly  deed, 

From  grief's  sad  thraldom  once  more  freed, 

His  frame  unbent,  his  eye  upraised, 

His  Maker's  goodness  'gain  he  praised. 

Thus,  where  these  two  sisters  trod, 

Sprang  sweet  flowers  from  the  sod. 


88 


LADIES  SPEAKING. 

We  went  to  hear  a  lady  speak 

In  public,  'fore  the  men, 
And,  oh,  she  spoke  so  very  grand 

We  thought  of  our  gray  lien 
That  goes  a  strutting  round  the  yard, 

And  then  at  early  morn 
Cries,  "Cock-a-doodle,  doodle-doo  !" 

On  tip-top  of  the  barn. 

The  roosters,  all,  look  up  aghast 

And  wonder  what's  the  matter  ! 
But  seeing  nothing  strange  about, 

"As  mad  as  hops,"  they  "at  her." 
And  this  their  conversation  is: 

"  Dear  miss,  you'd  better  lay 
Your  daily  egg,  and  hatch  it  out, 

Than  crowing  in  this  way. 
'Tis  very  masculine  in  you 

To  crow  so  bold  up  there; 
We  think  your  common-sense  must  own 

You're  out  of  hendom's  sphere; 
No  modest  hen  that's  in  her  wits 

Would  get  so  far  astray; 
We  roosters  blush  to  see  your  sex 

Made  public  in  this  way. 
And  then,  Miss  Hen,  pray  by  what  right 

Do  you  presume  to  dare 
Our  special  honors,  years  agonc, 

Thus  nonchalant  to  share  ?" 


89 


At  this  she  cocks  her  little  bill 

And  ruffles  up  her  breast: 
"  I'm  not  a  ninny,  I  can  fight! 

Send  on  your  very  best: 
I've  been  your  servant  long  enough, 

I'll  not  lay  one  more  egg. 
And  why  hens  may  not  crow,  dear  sirs, 

To  know  I  humbly  beg." 
So  down  she  pounces  on  the  roost — 

The  savage  little  elf— 
As  though  a  stealing  all  her  chicks 

Was  the  old  fox  himself. 

The  roosters,  'stonished  at  her  grit, 

Fly  off  with  fallen  crest  ; 
To  leave  all  crowing  hens  alone, 

(In  council)  they  think  best. 
Now,  gentlemen,  take  my  advice, 

When  ladies  take  to  speaking, 
Don't    "  at  em"  'baut  their  "  spheres  and 
rights," 

Or  you'll  go  off  a  sneaking. 

[Times  have  changed  since  this  was  written— 183-.] 


JEALOUSY. 


Throw  on  thy  mantle,  "  Love," 

And  let  us  walk  to-night, 
By  moonlight,  in  the  pleasant  grove, 

The  stars  are  shining  bright. 

These  inner  walls,  so  dull, 
Cast  shadows  o'er  thy  heart, 

And  apathy  walks  in  to  lull 
The  love  I  share  in  part. 


90 


Nay,  dearest,  why  so  cold ; 

Why  turn  away  thy  face; 
Dost  thou  esteem  a  lover  bold 

Who  in  thy  heart  claims  place? 

And  why  withdraw  thy  hand, 

That  soon  is  to  be  mine, 
By  lawful  wedlock's  silken  band, 

By  marriage-rite  divine? 

Dearest,  in  mercy,  deign, 

Within  the  grove  to-night, 
This  sudden  strangeness  to  explain, 

That  puts  thy  love  to  flight. 

Thou  dost  not  doubt  me,  "Love," 

'Tisthee  that  I  adore; 
I  swear  it  by  the  heavens  above  : 

I'm  thine  forevermore. 

Oh,  then,  'tis  Mabel  Reeve; 

Good  gracious  !  tell  me,  pray; 
Thou  saw  us  walking  yester-eve, 

And  now  art  jealous,  "  May." 

Fie  !  cast  the  frown  aside — 

A  note  for  brother  "Will," 
To  her  who  soon  will  be  his  bride, 

I  had  for  little  "Bell." 

Just  from  the  post,  last  eve, 

I  overtook  her  walking, 
And  that's  the  way,  with  Mabel  Reeve, 

I  happened  lonely  talking. 

Those  bright  eyes  smile  again,  "Love;" 
Those  lips  have  lost  their  pout. 

Come,  let  us  to  the  pleasant  grove 
While  yet  the  moon  is  out. 


And,  prithee,  never,  "May," 
Be  jealous  of  thy  "Ned;" 

Do,  dearest,  set  the  happy  day, 
Tis  time  that  we  were  wed. 


SUNSET. 


See,  what  a  glorious  sunset ! 

Earth's  beauteous  canopy; 
The  king  of  day  around  us  flings 

His  gorgeous  drapery. 

With  red,  and  gold,  and  purple, 

Each  azure  cloud  is  fringed, 
And  every  tree  and  hilltop  gray 

With  golden  rays  is  tinged. 

No  hand  of  earthly  painter 

Can  sketch  those  brilliant  dyes; 

They  more  than  beggar  limner's  art, 
Those  tintings  of  the  skies. 

How  glows  the  burnished  steeple; 

Each  palace,  hut  and  fane 
Is  glistening  with  the  golden  light 

From  gilded  window  pane. 

Such  an  October's  sunset 

Methinks  must  almost  vie 
With  that  far  land  bright  paved  with  gold- 

With  Heaven's  canopy. 

Oh,  is  it  not  a  foresight 

Of  that  fair  Paradise 
Whose  glories  beam  beyond  our  ken, 

Too  bright  for  human  eyes. 


My  soul,  an  such  an  eve  as  this, 

Is  wild  with  revery — 
It  almost  bursts  its  prison-house 

And  flies  in  ecstasy. 

Good  God,  how  many  beauties  here 
Wait  on  the  cheerful  heart  : 

Earth,  to  the  glad  adoring  one, 
Is  as  of  Heaven  a  part. 


OUR  LITTLE  RIVER. 


Ripple,  ripple,  little  rill; 
Always  going,  never  still; 
Yet  so  shallow  we  can  tread 
Barefoot  o'er  thy  pebbly  bed. 

Ripple,  ripple,  never  rest, 
Sunbeams  dance  upon  thy  breast; 
While  the  spider  and  the  fly 
O'er  thy  crinkled  wavelet  hie. 

Ripple,  ripple,  pearly  stream; 
Sportive  trout-fish  never  dream 
That  the  angler  drops  his  line, 
In  a  bosom  pure  as  thine. 

S weaving  naught,  from  day  to  day, 
Ripple,  ripple,  on  thy  way, 
From  thy  windings,  stopping  never- 
Humming,  murmuring,  onward  ever 

On  thy  banks  the  flow'rets  blush, 
And  the  birds  melodious  gush 
From  the  bending  trees  above  thee; 
But  they  tell  not  how  to  love  thee. 


With  the  home-cot  of  my  childhood. 
That  stood  near  thee  in  the  wildwood  ; 
With  the  loved  ones  that  have  left  me, 
Of  whom  Heaven  hath  bereft  me ; 

With  the  bright  things  that    ne'er    grieved 

•    me 

(For  thou  never  once  deceived  me), 
Thou  art  linked,  sweet  little  river: 
God  preserve  thy  wavelets  ever. 


THE  HOPE  OF  OPPRESSED  IRELAND. 


Hail !  hail  the  proud  day,  for  our  Liberty's  nigh; 
Nor  will  freedom's  blest  ray  her  twin-sister  outvie; 
For  wherever  she  sheds  her  bright  beams  on  a  land, 
Her  sister,  twin-sister,  is  ever  at  hand. 

For  her  twin-sister,  Science,  Freedom  opens  the  gate, 
And  bids  proud  defiance  to  tyranny's  hate; 
For  the  home  of  the  brave,  the  noble  and  free, 
Is  Science'  home-country,  wherever  it  be. 

Science  withers  and  dies  where  a  tyrant  doth  reign, 
From  his  country  she  flies  to  her  sister's  domain, 
For  with  pinions  fast  fettered  she  cannot  survive  ; 
Free  light  and  free  air  she  must  needs  have  to  thrive. 

184— 


04 


MA  WOULDN'T,  ETC. 

The  twilight  shadows  fill  the  vale, 

The  flowers  drink  the  dew, 
The  evening  star  begins  to  pale; 

But,  dear  one,  where  are  you? 

You  promised  you  would  wait  me  here, 

Beneath  our  trysting  tree; 
Why  do  your  footsteps  linger,  dear? 

Are  you  thus  false  to  me? 

The  moments,  leaden-winged,  depart; 

The  twilight's  on  the  wane, 
A  darksome  pall  falls  on  my  heart  : 

I  list  your  step  in  vain. 

They  told  me  worthless  was  your  vow; 

I  trusted  you  were  true. 
I  thought  you  bore  a  noble  brow, 

And  eyes  of  Heaven's  own  hue. 

I'll  think  so  still;  I'll  not  believe 

One  of  your  mien  and  eye 
Could  stoop  to  flatter  and  deceive 

E'en  one  as  weak  as  I. 

Oh,  you  have  come,  my  love,  at  last; 

I  almost  came  to  doubt 

"  I  know  the  hour,  my  sweet,  is  past: 

Ma  wouldn't  let  me  out." 


95 


A  DYING  AGED  LADY  AND  FRIEND. 


When  life  no  longer  gives  one  hope  of  joy, 

Who  would  not  wish  to  die? 
Who  would  not  pant  for  bliss  without  alloy 

Beyond  the  sky? 

With  me,  dear  friends,  'tis  meet,  then,  to  rejoice: 

Farewell!  let  no  tear  flow. 
Hark!  hear  you  not?. . .  .'tis  His,  the  Saviour's,  voice! 

I  go! 1  go! 

More  than  "threescore  and  ten  "  my  years  have  told, 
Earth's  sweets  long  since  have  fled; 

My  pulse  is  weak,  my  limbs  grow  stiff  and  cold. . . . 
She's  with  the  dead. 

Hush!. . .  .breathe  no  word. . .  .too  holy  is  the  spell. . . . 

In  quiet  let  her  soar. 
She's  gone — in  spirit-land  her  soul  will  dwell 

Forevermore. 


THE  LITTLE  CHILD-FLOWER. 

Sweet  little  flower,  plucked  from  thy  mother's  breast, 
Like  a  fair  bud  plucked  from  its  parent  tree, 

Though  far  more  deeply  mourned — by  Christ  caressed, 
Thou  now  dost  sleep — rest,  rest,  thee,  tranquilly. 


96 


BOAT  SONG. 


Row,  boys,  row  ! 
O'er  the  waves  we  go  ! 
As  we  swiftly  glide  along, 

Let  our  oars  keep  time  with  song 

Row,  boys,  row  ! 

Sing,  boys,  sing ! 

Let  your  voices  ring 

Out  far  o'er  the  green  waves'  gleam 

Of  our  proud  and  noble  stream — 

Sing,  boys,  sing ! 

Chime,  boys,  chime ! 

In  a  pleasant  rhyme. 

Give  us  something  gay  or  witty; 

Bright  eyes,  sparkling,  wait  the  ditty — 

Chime,  girls,  chime ! 


Time  is  pas-ing,  land  is  nearing, 
To  the  shore  our  skiff  is  steering — 
Grand  St.  Lawrence  !     In  thy  flow, 
Smoothly  running,  humming  low, 
Or  o'er  rocks  bound,  foaming,  rumbling, 
From  the  highlands  leaping,  tumbling, 
Dashing,  thundering — bright  skies  bless  thee  ! 
Often  may  our  boat  caress  thee — 
Land,  boys,  land ! 


97 


"FORGIVE  AND  FORGET." 


"  Forgive  and  forget " 

All  the  wrongs  thou  hast  met 

At  the  hand  of  thy  brother  below — 
1  hose  are  happiest  far 
Whom  revenge  doth  not  mar 

With  its  spirit  of  evil  and  woe. 

If  thy  brother  offends  thee, 
And  ne'er  makes  amends  t'  thee, 

Nor  asks  thy  forgiveness  for  wrong ; 
If  the  trespass  be  "  seven," 
Or  "  seventy  times  seven," 

T'  avenge  doth  to  Heaven  belong. 

"  Forgive  and  forget," 

Let  the  sun  never  set 
O'er  thy  brow  in  its  nursings  of  fire; 

When  thou  layest  thy  head 

At  night  on  thy  bed, 
Sleep  not  with  the  demon  of  ire. 

"  Forgive  and  forget ;" 

Those  are  happiest  yet 
Who  know  nothing  of  malice  or  wrath  ; 

There  is  plenty  of  trouble 

Without  making  it  double 
With  wicked  hate's  crossing  our  path. 


93 


AFFLICTION. 


Affliction  is  to  faithful  woman's  heart 
Like  to  the  fire  that  purifies  the  gold  ; 

And  tears  of  grief  that  from  her  eyelids  start 
Will  be  reset,  as  gems  of  heavenly  mold, 

Within  the  crown  that  waits  the  chastened  one, 

Who  prays,  in  penitence,  "  Thy  will  be  done." 

Sorrow,  neglect,  and  poverty  and  scorn, 
Each  one  is  as  a  round  that  doth  compose 

The  ladder  she  full  oft  in  life's  young  morn 
Is  doomed  t'  ascend  ere  end  her  earthly  woes ; 

But  the  poor  soul,  thus  in  the  furnace  tried, 

Shall  rest  ere  long  with  Jesus  sanctified. 

Oh,  woman  fond,  made  by  affection  blind, 
Thy  warm  and  trusting  heart  too  often  falls 

A  prey  to  selfish  man,  whose  evil  mind 
Seeks  to  entice  thee;  but  the  sin  recoils 

At  last  upon  the  tempter — Christ,  the  Son, 

Will  "cast  the  stone"  to  crush  the  tempting  one. 


99 


I  THOUGHT,  &c. 


I  thought  he  came  at  dewy  eve, 

To  whisper  in  my -ear ; 
But  now  I  know,  in  morn's  pale  beam, 

My  brother  lost  is  near. 

I  know  him  by  the  gentle  rap 

Upon  the  inner  door 
Of  my  sad  heart,  so  like  the  rap 

He  used  to  give  of  yore. 

I  know  him  by  the  gentle  words, 

"  Awake,  my  sister  dear," 
So  like  the  gentle  words'  of  old, 

My  tar  was  wont  to  hear. 

And,  too,  my  soul  discerns  the  smile 
That  lights  his  pleasant  eye, 

So  like  the  smile  it  used  to  w.ear 
Ere  he  ascended  high. 

And  the  blest  counsels  that  he  breathes, 

I  heed  with  willing  ear  ; 
For  well  I  know  wheve  wisdom  reigns, 

There  reigns  my  brother  dear. 


100 


"POOR  LITTLE  THING." 

Poor  little  thing  ;  it  never  knew 
The  blessings  of  a  mother's  care ; 

She  died  when  first  its  breath  it  drew, 
And  soared  beyond  the  realms  of  air. 

It  never  laid  its  downy  cheek 

Close  on  her  warm  and  loving  breast ; 

It  never  heard  the  sweet  lips  speak", 
Or  felt  them  on  its  temples  prest. 

It  never  saw  a  mother's  eyes 

Beaming  with  love  unspeakable — 

A  mother's  love  that  never  dies, 
Deep,  holy  and  unquenchable. 

That  best  and  choicest  gift  of  earth, 
Poor  little  one,  from  thee  hath  passed — 

Thou  ne'er  canst  know  a  mother's  worth, 
Thy  lot  in  stranger-hands  is  cast. 

But  thou  wilt  miss  her,  little  one, 

As  strength  and  knowledge  grow  with  years ; 
There'll  hang  a  cloud  before  thy  sun, 

That  oft  will  shower  thy  face  with  tears. 

An  aching  void  that  naught  can  fill, 
A  reaching  for  a  something  gone  ; 

A  yearning  that  no  joys  can  still, 

Thou'lt  know  too  well,  poor  little  one. 


101 


Thou'lt  miss  her  in  the  darkling  cby, 

When  sorrow,  doubt,  disease  shall  come; 

Thou'lt  need  her  hand  to  guide  the  way, 
And  light  the  path  thy  feet  must  roam. 

Thou'lt  miss  her  gentle,  soothing  tone, 
Her  tender  care  and  love-lit  eye — 

God  help  and  shield  thee,  little  one, 
No  mother  by  thy  side  is  nigh. 

Oh,  "mother  !"  "  mother  !"  sweet  the  name, 
It  makes  my  every  heart-string  thrill ; 

It  sends  a  tremor  through  my  frame, 
Big,  heavy  drops  my  eyelids  fill. 

"  Mother !"  my  mother  !  oh,  how  much 
I've  yearned  and  pined  for  love  like  thine — 

I've  felt  a  void  which  naught  could  touch, 
For  I  have  missed  thee,  mother  mine. 


102 


FOR  MR.  AND  MRS. 


Upon  their  marriage,  and  referring  to  his  having  mourned  the  death  of 
a  former  wife. 


We  wish  tliee  good  cheer,  Mrs.  S. 
Live,  love,  to  be  blest  and  to  bless. 

May  thy  sky  be  as  clear 

As  affection's  bright  tear, 

And  thy  pathway  as  fair 

As  if  Summer  were  there, 
Strewing  sweets  for  thy  footstep's  caress. 

We  wish  thee  good  cheer,  happy  bride  I 
Smile  on  in  thy  walk  by  his  side. 

'M:d  thy  joy's  fleeting  hours, 

'Mid  thy  love's  fairy  flowers, 

May  no  thorns  lie  concealed, 

To  be  ever  revealed — 
Serenely  through  life  ever  glide. 

We  wish  thee  good  cheer,  happy  groom, 
With  the  bride  thou  hast  borne  to  thy  home. 

Let  all  sorrow  surcease, 

And  thy  heart  be  at  peace; 

For  the  star  in  thy  sky — 

Woman's  love-lighted  eye — 
Shall  chase  from  thy  bosom  its  gloom. 


IOC 


FOR  THE  ONE  MAN  WHO  THINKS  NO  ONE  BUT 
HIS  DEARY  IS  WORTHY  OF  NOTICE. 


He's  lost  to  all  but  one ; 

He  lives  to  be  her  slave  ; 
And  when  his  thread  of  life  is  spun, 

He'll  sei  ve  her  in  his  grave. 


TO  THE  LADIES. 
Upon  being  invited  to  a  Fair  l>y  them  at  M- 


Had  our  pen  but  the  power,  it  should  fair\j  portray 
All  the  pleasure  imparted  on  New  Year's/cm*  day, 
All  the  fair  things  displayed  at  the  fair  ladies'  Fair, 
All  the  fair  viands  tasted,  so  tempting,  so  rare, 
All  ihefair  words  and  greetings  from  hearts  fairer  still, 
As  with/azVest  endeavors  they  swayed  all  at  their  will. 
But  pencil  ne'er  painted  the  diamond's  bright  tints, 
Nor  the  nectarine  draughts  from  Elysian  founts  ; 
How,  then,  when  the  fair  sex  their  efforts  unite, 
To  tickle  the  palate  or  dazzle  the  sight, 
Can  the  charm  that  enchains  in  its  true  light  appear  ? 
Oh,  we  wish  we  had  ever  just  such  a  New  Year; 
Yet  our  heart's  warmest  wishes  we  send  in  our  lay, 
And  our  thanks,  gentle  ladies,  receive  them,  we  pray  ; 
For  the  kindness  ye  showed  us  forget  we  shall  never, 
Till  the  fair  things  of  earth  ironi  our  sight  vanish  ever. 


.104 


A  CHILD'S  IDEA. 

"  Are  the  stars  the  eyes  of  angels, 
Mamma  ?"  asked  a  little  son, 

Gazing  at  them  from  the  window, 
As  they  came  out  one  by  one. 

"  If  they  are  the  eyes  of  angels, 
Then  the  sun  must  be  God's  eye ; 

For  you  say  that  God  is  greatest, 
And  he  dwells  up  in  the  sky." 

"  But,  my  child,  God  seeth  ever, 
And  the  sun  is  dark  at  night." 

"  Well,  I  guess  he  shuts  it  *  little,' 
And  that's  why  it  ain't  so  light." 


105 


THE  MEXICAN  WAR. 


Lines  suggested  by  the  motto,  "  Our  Country,  right  or  wrong. 

Look  ye  on  yonder  battle-field, 

Beneath  the  southern  sky, 
Where  crimson  War's  destructive  car 

Is  rolling  fearful  by. 
List  to  the  bugle's  echoing  blast, 

The  canon's  thundering  roar, 
The  sharp,  quick  clashing  of  the  steel, 

Thirsting  for  mortal  gore  ! 

List !  list  1  as  loudly  through  the  ranks 

Thunders  each  battle  cry, 
Where  great  contending  armies  wave 

Their  streaming  banners  high  ; 
While  firmer,  bolder,  onward  press 

Our  nation's  bravest  sons, 
Crushing  beneath  their  mighty  power 

Opposing  myrmidons. 

Behold  the  slaughter  !     Thick  and  fast 

The  dying  strew  the  ground  ; 
The  reeking  sword,  the  fiery  ball 

Strikes  deep  the  deadly  wound. 
And  fiercer,  fiercer  on  they  rush, 

Each  warrior  aims  the  blow, 
To  haste  to  an  untimely  grave 

Some  brave,  opposing  foe. 


106 


Oh,  few  on  earth  are  so  forlorn 

That  none  will  mourn  their  end  ; 
Those  dead  th  3  sad  precursors  are 

That  grief  some  heart  shall  rend. 
And  ne'er  can  wealth  of  lands  untold, 

Or  golden  mines  repay 
The  pangs  that  this  last  hour  hath  fraught 

With  its  unholy  fray. 

See  !  wilder  rages  on  the  fight, 

While  grappling  thousands  fall, 
Stretched  out  upon  their  earthy  bed, 

Heaven's  canopy  their  pall. 
And  trampled  'neath  the  charger's  hoof, 

Unheeded  lie  the  slain, 
And  dying  ones,  whose  welt' ring  gore 

Floods  o'er  the  dismal  plain. 

Hark  !  hark  !  those  sounds— 'tis  "  Victory  !" 

The  shoutings  pierce  the  sky — 
"  They  flee  !  they  flee  !"  triumphantly 

Our  conquering  soldiers  cry. 
Some  will  rejoice — good  news  it  brings— 

Our  country's  cause  is  won  ; 
Laurels  will  grace  the  victor's  brow, 

For  carnage  he  hath  done. 

Quick,  valiant  deeds,  in  triumph  proud, 

Are  wafted  far  and  near ; 
Full  many  a  heart  ecstatic  beats 

The  joyous  tale  to  hear. 
And  every  mountain,  Mil  and  glen 

Their  thankful  tribute  raise  ; 
For  glory  crowns  our  nation's  arms — 

Her  victor-chief  repays. 


107 

Now  to  that  sister  turn  the  while, 

As  prayerfully  she  weeps — 
Behold  that  mother  lowly  knelt, 

Who  holy  vigils  keeps, 
Beseeching  God  to  spare  her  child, 

Her  darling,  only  son, 
Nor  knows  she  that  'tis  vain — e'en  now 

His  race  on  earth  is  run. 


There  rests  in  death  his  pallid  brow- 
He  was  their  earthly  stay — 

A  noble  intellect  there  shone, 
Ere  he  had  passed  away. 

His  mother's  and  his  sister's  pride, 
He  was  beloved  of  all ; 

But  oh,  too  generous,  too  brave- 
That  form  was  doomed  to  fall. 
% 

Look  on  them  !     Ah,  they  know  not  yet 

The  grief  for  them  in  store — 
They  pray  ;  but  that  fair,  manly  form, 

They'll  meet  on  earth  no  more. 
Still  u  Victory  !"  proud  "  Victory  !"  , 

Rings  out  upon  the  air ; 
But  oh,  the  wounds  that  they  shall  feel 

Can  victory  repair  ? 

"  My  country  !  'tis  for  thee  I  die," 

He  said  with  parting  breath  ; 
"  A  halo  let  thy  glory  wreathe 

Around  my  brow  in  death. 
Heaven  support  them  'neath  this  stroke, 

The  cherished  of  my  soul ; 
Keep,  keep,  my  God  !  those  dear  ones  left, 

Within  thy  kind  control." 


108 

Turn  to  the  wife— her  ear  has  caught 

The  gladsome  tale  of  joy — 
Brightens  her  eye  ;  she  smiles,  alas! 

Wists  she  not  of  alloy  ? 
But  hopes  she  soon  again  to  hear 

Her  husband's  well  known  tread  ? 
Ah,  never  more  will  he  return — 

He  sleeps,  too,  with  the  dead. 

His  clay-cold  form  on  yonder  plain 

Lies  'neath  the  sun's  hot  ray, 
Exposed  to  every  sacrilege 

Of  man  or  beast  of  prey. 
And  there,  unhonored  and  unsung, 

Beneath  those  burning  skies, 
His  fleshless  bones  for  aye  shall  bleach 

Till  Heaven  bids  him  rise. 
*   . 

The  child,  too,  hears  of  triumph  proud- 

tv  Father  will  come,"  the  cries ; 
She  waits  him  on  the  threshold  there, 

And  strains  her  watchful  eyes 
To  catch  the  first  glad  glimpse  of  him, 

Her  sire,  almost  adored  ; 
But  ah,  he'll  como  not  there  again— 

He  fell  by  war's  red  sword. 

And  s,he  is  now  an  orphan  child, 

Thrown  on  the  heartless  throng, 
With  no  kind  friend  to  take  her  part, 

Though  she  should  suffer  wrong. 
Those  fragile  hands  must  earn  her  bread, 

Though  poor  and  mean  it  be, 
Or  she  must  starve,  or  sink  betimes 

To  shame  and  misery. 


109 

And  see  that  face  so  purely  sweet, 

Of  late  bedimmed  with  care  ; 
She  throws  aside  the  cloud  of  gloom 

That  vailed  her  temples  fair, 
And  listens  to  achievements  brave, 

Heralded  near  and  far — 
Ah,  fears  she  not  that  her  betrothed 

Fell  on  the  field  of  war? 


Knows  she  not  that  a  corpse  he  lies, 

With  sunken,  sightless  eye, 
Where  myriads  tread  the  blood-stained  sod 

He  bathed  in  agony  ? 
That  'mid  unburied  heaps  he  rests, 

All  spiritless  and  still  ? 
Oh,  she  has  yet  to  bow  beneath 

The  mandate  of  God's  will. 

Behold  that  gray-haired  man,  whose  cheek 

Is  furrowed  deep  with  care  I 
Trembles  in  his  dim  eye  a  tear — 

Upon  his  lip  a  prayer, 
As  bends  he  down  from  day  to  day, 

To  beg  that  God  would  save 
The  wild  and  reckless  youth  who  brings 

Him  sorrowing  to  the  grave. 

He  weens  not  that  already,  too, 

He  hath  been  ushered  in, 
To  meet  the  dread  tribunal,  where 

All  must  account  for  sin— 
That  now  hath  passed  the  sentence  just, 

1  he  lasting,  firm  decree, 
Which  sends  him  to  his  spirit  home, 

That  must  eternal  be. 


110 

Yet,  ah,  ere  long  shall  reach  their  ears 

The  story  time  will  bring — 
The  thorn  to  pierce  the  bosom's  core 

Is  e'en  now  on  the  wing  ; 
And  frantically  their  anguished  souls 

Shall  writhe  beneath  the  smart 
Inflicted  upon  yonder  field 

By  dire  war's  poisonous  dart. 

Oh.  can  je  soothe  their  grief  when  they 

The  woeful  tale  shall  hear, 
That  will  their  every  heart-string  break, 

And  force  the  scorching  tear  ? 
Or  can  ye  tell  of  aught  on  earth 

That  can  the  deep  wounds  heal? 
Or  fill,  alas !  the  aching  void 

Each  stricken  breast  must  feel? 

Still  "  Victory  !"  glad  "  Victory !" 

Cleaves  with  its  shou's  the  air; 
11  Our  country's  honor  is  maintained — 

Scorn  now  her  might  who  dare  !" 
Oh,  little  reck  they  of  the  price 

Such  truthful  words  have  cost, 
The  pains,  the  sighs,  the  groans,  the  tears, 

That  pay  for  such  pruud  boast. 

They  reck  not  of  the  helpless  ones, 

Uf;on  the  cold  world  driven  ; 
The  homeless,  friendless  wanderers, 

Whose  all  for  it  was  given, 
When  death  upon  that  blood/  plain 

Asunder  burst  the  ties 
That  bound  them  here — that  bind  them  now 

To  yonder  hallowed  skies. 


Ill 

Still  every  gale  is  laden  fresh 

With  conquests  bold  and  new; 
Atlantic's  and  Pacific's  shores 

Re-echo  valor  true. 
But  oh,  what  myriads  who  fall 

Upon  that  blood-stained  sod, 
All  unawares  are  ushered  in 

To  face  a  righteous  God. 

Yet,  though  we  sing  of  war's  sad  scourge, 

Our  cheeks  with  shame  would  glow, 
If  e'en  ourself — a  woman  frail — 

Crouched  to  our  country's  foe. 
If  needed,  we  the  blade  would  wield, 

Should  foes  invade  the  land; 
But  not  "  Our  country,  right  or  wrong  !" 

For  "  rights  "  alone  we  stand. 


112 


A  WORD  FOR  THANKSGIVING. 

The  wished-for  day  has  come  at  last, 
Young  hearts  beat  wild  with  glee, 

While  for  God's  gifts  of  kindness  past 
We'll  bend  the  grateful  knee. 

And  when  beside  the  sumptuous  board 

We  eat  and  drink  our  fill, 
Let  us  bethink,  'tis  Christ  the  Lord 

Who  gives  of  his  good-will. 

And  though  'tis  from  his  bounteous  store 

Our  wants  are  all  supplied, 
There  was  a  time  He  hungered  sore — 

His  own  was  Him  denied. 

And  let  us  not  forget  the  poor, 
Who  e'en  the  crumbs  would  prize 

(Which  fall  upon  the  b  nquet  floor) 
To  soothe  their  children's  cries. 

Hail !  then  in  joy  let  all  unite 

The  voice  of  thanks  to  raise — 
The  maimed,  the  poor,  the  lone  invite 

To  swell  the  song  of  praise. 

It  is  but  meet  that  they  should  share 

Our  nation's*  jubilee — 
We  have  enough,  and  more  to  spare 

To  gladden  misery. 

*  I  tb ink  the  y ear  the  above  was   written  all  the   States  had  the 
same  day  of  tbn  year  set  apart  as  Thanksgiving  day. 


113 


WRITTEN  FOR  M- 


On  the  death  of  her  mother,  and  referring  to  her  contemplated  de- 
parture from  her  home. 


Would  some  kind  angel  might  draw  near  to  guide 
My  feeble  pen,  to  speak  what  woes  betide 
A  stricken  heart,  so  lonely,  crushed  and  sore, 
It  bleeds  with  silent  grief  at  every  pore. 

Oh,  who  that  ne'er  hath  lost  a  mother  dear 
Can  feel  for  her  who  mourns  her  absence  here — 
Who  now  must  tread  alone  this  tearful  vale, 
With  no  kind  friend  to  soothe  till  life  shall  fail. 

Yet  I,  my  friend,  can  feel  for  thee  in  part — 
I,  too,  have  seen  a  mother  fond  depart — 
Have  seen  death  lay  on  her  his  icy  hand, 
As  passed  she  upward  to  the  spirit-land. 

I,  too,  an  only  daughter,  marked  the  smile 
That  played  around  that  mother's  lip  the  while, 
Ere  she  was  shrouded  'neath  the  dismal  pall 
Which  vailed  the  form  I  would  in  vain  recall. 

Mv  sight  hath  gazed  upon  the  darkened  eye 
And  pulseless  frame  that  stiff  and  cold  did  lie ; 
And  oft  my  steps  in  sadness  trace  the  spot 
Where  sleeps  her  dust — save  by  her  friends  forgot. 

Yes,  I  long  years  have  mourned,  as  thou  shalt  mourn, 
Earth's  dearest  gift,  gone  never  to  return — 


114 

And  well  I  know  the  depths  of  that  dire  wound, 
Which  naught  can  soothe,  save  Jesus'  grace  abound. 

My  eye,  like  thine,  has  wept — of  friends  bereaved, 
My  heart,  like  tliine,  has  bled,  and  still  doth  bleed; 
For  I  have  missed  a  fondest  mother's  love, 
And  sigh  o'er  deir  ones  gone  to  worlds  above. 

Yet  not  for  them  I  grieve — to  them  'twas  gain 
To  leave  a  world  wheic  life  is  linked  with  pain ; 
But  oh,  the  dreary  path  I  needs  must  tread 
Oft  forces  me  the  bitter  tear  to  shed. 

Yet  I  a  father's  kindly  care  was  left — 
Poor  mourner,  thou  of  him  too  art  bereft. 
Thy  sky  is  dark — no  ray  of  hope  appears. 
But  "  God  is  love  " — He  heeds  the  orphan's  tears. 

Still,  weeping  one,  it  will  not  dry  thy  ch'  ek 
That  one  so  frail  attempt  thy  grief  to  speak  ; 
That  others  may  have  felt  what  thou  dost  feel 
Heals  not  the  pangs  which  none  but  Christ  can  heal. 

Then  bow  to  Him  in  prayer — He'll  hear  thy  cry  ; 

On  His  firm  promises  in  faith  rely ; 

He  is  the  orphan's  ever-faithful  friend — 

His  free  and  loving  kindness  knows  no  end. 

And  though  in  sorrow  from  thy  childhood's  home 
And  dear  paternal  roof  thou  soon  must  roam, 
Let  me  e'en  hope  the  star  of  peace  will  light 
In  gladd'ning  halo  round  thy  spirit's  sight. 

I  can  but  wish  that  thou  in  stranger-land 
May  find  a  welcome  meet  from  heart  and  hand — 
That  earth  shall  yield  what  good  it  can  thee  give, 
While  'mid  its  joys  thou  shalt  for  heaven  live. 


115 


Yet  should  each  cherished  relic  of  the  past, 
On  which  thine  eye  ere  long  must  gaze  its  last, 
In  fond  remembrance  cling  around  thee  still — 
Like  her,*  ne'er  murmur  at  thy  Father's  will. 

Then,  oh,  that  blissful  port ! — thou'lt  anchor  there, 
Where  joy  is  joy  unmingled  with  despair; 
Glad  will  thy  meeting  be— thou  wilt  behold 
Thy  mother  smiling  in  the  Lamb's  bright  fold. 

*  Her  uiother. 


116 


FOURTH  OF  JULY. 


TOASTS. 


Our  Unfurling  Banner — emblematic  of  the  unfolding 
power  of  our  nation  and  its  increasing  dominion  ! 

Our  Country !  The  Polar  Star  to  the  tempest-tossed 
kingdoms  of  the  earth. 

Our  Government !  The  sun  to  which  all  nations  turn, 
receiving  light  from  its  beams  even  as  the  planets  of  the 
solar  system  are  lighted  by  their  day-king. 

For  though  a  woman,  I  would  boast — 
Boast  of  my  heirship,  wonder  ye  1 

Was  I  not  born  on  Freedom's  soil — 
My  heritage  sweet  liberty  ! 

What  though  no  wreath  of  pearls  bedeck, 

Or  diamonds  glitter  on  my  brow ; 
Nor  costly  fabrics  beautify 

My  person  with  their  brilliant  glow  ; 
Nor  courses  in  my  veins  the  blood 

Of  England's  proud  nobility  ; 
Think  ye  I'd  barter  for  their  worth 

My  birthright — priceless  liberty  ? 

Nay,  for  I'm  of  a  nobler  race ; 

And  I  am  proud,  this  glorious  day, 
That  I  my  lineage  may  trace 

To  ireemen  of  America. 


117 


THE  DYING  ONE'S  ADIEU. 


Farewell,  father,  I  must  leave  you ; 

To  the  realms  above  I  go — 
Farewell,  brother,  do  not  grieve  you ; 

Let  no  tear  in  sorrow  flow. 
Farewell,  sister,  you  have  loved  me — 

Well  I  know  you'll  mourn  me  some — 
Seek  Christ  early — you  will  meet  me 

In  a  better,  dearer  home. 

Weep  not,  dear  ones  !  though  we  sever, 

Wait  my  voice  at  even-time ; 
Oft  around  you  will  I  hover, 

Oft  will  leave  that  blissful  clime. 
When  the  flowers  are  closing  nightly, 

Ere  the  heavy  dew-drops  fall, 
Ere  the  stars  come  out  too  brightly, 

List  ye  t  >  my  vesper  call. 

List  my  whisper  !  fear  me  never — 

Spirits  harm  not  those  they  love — 
Heed  me  gently ;  I  will  ever 

Tell  of  Paradise  above. 
When  ye  feel  the  kind  caressing 

Of  the  breeze  at  twilight  hour, 
Know  your  brows  my  lips  are  pressing, 

Ere  the  skies  in  darkness  lower. 

Greet  me  kindly  in  my  mission — 
Let  our  loves  the  hour  beguile — 

Though  ye  see  no  friendly  vision, 
Deem  my  spirit  there  the  while. 


118 

I  will  waft  your  evening  prayer 
To  the  throne  where  Jesus  waits  ; 

I  will  be  your  incense  bearer, 
Till  we  meet  at  heaven's  gates. 

Farewell !  farewell !  death  has  bound  me, 

Youth's  fond  dreams  of  life  are  o'er ; 
Angel  bands  aie  waiting  round  me  ; 

I  am  on  that  happy  shore. 
Clasp  me,  mother ;  clasp  me,  brother ; 

All  too  long  we  parted  were ; 
Haste  1  I  see  the  blessed  Saviour ; 

Let  me  to  his  arms  repair. 


119 


A  SONG  OF  SOLITUDE. 


Each  heart  hath  known  its  own  deep  woe, 

Too  deep  for  words  to  tell ; 
Each  eye  hath  felt  the  hot  tear  flow, 

It  tried  in  vain  to  quell. 
Yet  fleeting  time  with  some  will  heal 

Griefs  cruel,  aching  smart  ; 
The  bosom  soon  forgets  to  feel 

That  sorrow  there  had  part. 

But  one,  I  ween,  there  is  who  finds 

In  life  no  healing  cure ; 
'Tis  death  alone  the  chain  unbinds, 

She  must  till  then  endure  ; 
For  in  her  desolated  breast 

A  worm  is  gnawing  th6re  ; 
And  deeper  in  the  soul's  unrest 

Is  sinking  dark  despair. 

And  in  her  spirit's  loneliness, 

No  word  of  soothing  power 
Essays  to  cheer  life's  weariness, 

Or  light  the  darkened  hour. 
Alone  she  treads  the  dreary  way 

That  sorrow  marks  her  own — 
Not  even  hope's  delusive  ray 

Hath  on  her  pathway  shone. 

But  why  intrude  on  others'  ears 
This  drooping  heart's  sad  tale  ; 

Each  has  enough  of  earth's  dread  cares, 
Who  treads  this-gloomy  vale. 


120 

Each,  each  has  seen  the  buds  of  joy 
Lie  withered,  wasted,  strown, 

Or  felt  that  even  sweets  will  cloy 
With  bitter  all  their  own. 

Then  let  my  murmurs  be  repressed — 

I'll  ask  of  none  to  share 
This  lonely  waste — woe  unexpressed, 

Alone  I  still  will  bear. 
And  when  the  last  slow  pulse  has  ceased, 

The  world  will  never  know 
The  cankering  grief  within  encased, 

That  dried  life's  crimson  flow. 

Beneath  a  smile  shall  hidden  lie 

All  t?  ace  of  anguish  deep  ; 
Aye,  vailed  from  every  human  eye 

Shall  be  the  tears  I  weep. 
And  when  within  the  grass-grown  grave 

This  body  finds  a  rest, 
The  sigh  of  pity  none  shall  heave 

Above  the  sleeping  breast. 

Then  when  my  harp  anew  is  tuned, 

I'll  let  the  strain  be  glad  ; 
Nor  open  lay  again  the  wound 

Which  makes  my  spill:  sad. 
With  hope  and  joy  I  will  inspire 

The  songs  I  yet  may  sing, 
And  smother  the  consuming  fire 

Which  stains  this  offering. 


121 


ASPIRINGS. 


Oh,  God,  my  Father,  hear  my  prayer — 
'Tis  Thou  alone  hast  power  to  grant — 

Touch,  touch  my'heartwith  holy  fire; 
For  living  draughts  I  thirsting  pant. 

Let  not  my  spirit  vainly  strive, 

With  higher  aims  and  purpose  grand ; 

But  strengthen  Thou  the  drooping  wing, 
Till  on  the  towering  height  I  stand. 

Bend,  bend  thine  ear,  Great  God,  I  pray, 
While  humbly  at  Thy  feet  I  bow ; 

High,  heaven-born  thoughts,  immortal  truths, 
Stamp  on  my  wrestling  spirit  now. 

Let  not  the  "  talent  "  buried  lie, 

Which  with  my  being  Thou  didst  blend ; 

Aid  Thou  my  soul  to  strike  the  lyre — 
My  Father,  to  my  cry  attend. 

Let  not  my  being  naught  avail — 
I  fain  would  sing,  to  honor  Thee, 

Soi-gs  of  Thy  deep  and  endless  love, 
Of  lite  and  immortality. 

Oh,  fill  my  soul  with  holy  zeal, 

And  knowledge  from  the  founts  of  heaven ; 
Warm  Thou  my  breast,  inspire  my  tongue, 

Till  glory  to  Thy  name  is  given. 

With  high  resolve,  unfettered  wing, 

Oh,  let  me  soar  till  I  attain 
The  summit  which  I  yearn  to  reach, 

Ere  youth  and  hope  are  on  the  wane. 


I  fain  would  breathe  in  willing  ears 

The  story  of  the  Lamb  once  slain, 
And  sing  of  New  Jerusalem, 

Where  Christ,  the  Prince  of  Peace,  shall  reign. 

I  fain  would  sing  of  all  beyond 

The  beauteous  skies,  high  overhead, 

And  all  beneath  those  azure  vaults, 

Which  glads  the  path  on  earth  we  tread. 

I  fain  would  strike  a  golden  string, 
Whose  thrilling  melodies  should  rise 

Before  Thy  throne  immaculate, 
Like  incense  sweet  in  Paradise. 

Oh,  would  to  heaven  my  God  would  bless 

The  efforts  of  my  feeble  pen, 
That  I  might  wiite  indelibly 

My  soul-thoughts  on  the  hearts  of  men, 

Till  every  line  my  hand  may  trace 

Shall  brightly  glow  with  truth  divine, 

And  beaming  with  its  radiance, 
A  poet-wreath  my  brow  entwine. 

Still  to  thy  praise,  my  God,  alone 
My  voice  woukl  swell  the  anthem  grand, 

Whose  music-strains  unceasing  flow 
From  works  of  Thy  creative  hand. 

Then  to  Thyself  pray  consecrate 

(E'en  though  the  offering  humble  be) 

Each  verse  Thy  servant  shall  indite, 
Ere  launched  in  Thine  eternity. 

And  on  the  marble  at  my  head, 

When  sleeps  my  dust  beneath  the  sod, 

Be  this  the  simple  epitaph, 

"  She  lived  to  honor  Nature's  God." 


123 


CHRISTIAN. 


Christian,  safe  will  sail  thy  bark, 
While  Grace  shall  guide  the  helm, 

Though  tempests  rave  and  skies  are  dark, 
No  dangers  shall  overwhelm. 

Be  thy  companions  Faith  and  Love 

Over  life's  stormy  sea, 
And  Bethlehem  starbeains  from  above 

Shall  light  thee  to  the  lea. 


124 


FOR  MRS.  McP- 


Kelative  to  the  loss  Ly  death  of  her  husband,  then  child,  and  then 
father. 


Does  the  world  seem  cheerless  to  thee  ? 

Has  the  sunlight  left  thine  eye  ? 
Have  the  brightest  stars  departed 

From  thy  early  brilliant  sky  ? 
And  is  life  a  weary  longing 

For  the  rest  to  mourners  given? 
Cheer  thee,  for  the  loved  ones  wait  thee 

In  their  blissful  home  in  heaven. 

Hear'st  thou  not  their  silv'ry  voices, 

When  the  morning  zephyrs  play  ? 
Or  when  stilly  twilight  lingers 

Round  the  couch  of  closing  day, 
Market  thou  not  the  tones  ce'estial 

That  are  wooing  thee  above  ? 
Cheer  thee,  for  the  lost  ones  wait  thee 

In  the  land  of  life  and  love. 

Well  I  know  thy  heart,  young  mourner, 

Pierced  hath  been,  and  very  sore, 
And  my  words  to  tell  are  feeble, 

Of  the  griefs  thou  dost  endure  ; 
But  the  widow  and  the  orphan 

God  doth  guard  with  watchful  care, 
And  though  'tis  a  darksome  pathway 

He  will  guide  thy  footsteps  there, 


125 

Where  death  reigns  not,  and  no  partings 

Rend  with  woe  the  stricken  breast, 
Where  no  more  the  cloud  of  sorrow 

On  the  fair,  pale  cheek  shall  rest ; 
And  where  all  earth's  loved  and  lost  ones 

Meet  to  hold  communion  sweet, 
And  in  deep  and  thrilling  rapture 

Bow  before  Christ's  mercy  seat. 

Weeping  one,  the  star  of  promise 

For  thy  soul  doth  brightly  beam — 
Whom  the  Lord  afflicts  most  sorely, 

He  most  worthy  doth  esteem. 
Cheer  thee,  then,  though  earth  seem  lonely, 

Joys  await  thee  in  the  sky, 
And  the  loved  ones  gone  before  thee 

Yet  shall  waft  thy  soul  on  high. 

But,  sad  one,  thou  still  hath  left  thee 

One  who  needs  thy  love-light  here  ; 
She,  too,  mourns  her  deep  afflictions, 

'Reft  of  one  than  life  more  dear. 
A.nd  in  all  thy  early  sorrows 

She  hath  borne  a  sacred  part — 
Cheer  thee,  then,  for  she  who  bare  thee 

Claims  a  share  within  thy  heart. 


RELATIVE  TO  THE   DEATH  OF  LITTLE  SARAH. 


A  sweet  little  singing  child,  who  followed  (in  one  or  two  days  after 
the  bai  ial  of  her  sister)  her  elder  sister  to  the  grave. 


"Mother,  they  have  laid  sweet  Sarah 
In  the  cold  and  dismal  ground — - 

She,  the  dearest  of  my  playmates, 
Now  can  hear  no  word  or  sound." 

**  Nay,  my  child,  but  now  in  heaven 
She  is  clothed  in  robes  of  white, 

And  she  hears  the  angels  singing, 
Where  no  tear-drop  dims  the  sight. 

"Aye,  the  little  cherub-minstrel 
Too  hath  joined  the  holy  band, 

And  her  songs  more  sw^et  than  ever 
Tell  of  joy  in  Eden  land. 

"  Precious,  fairest  bud  of  promise, 
We  shall  miss  her  smiling  face  ; 

But  we  feel  she's  sweetly  blooming 
In  her  Saviour's  fond  embrace. 

"  And  in  early,  glad  reunion 

With  her  angel-sister  now 
She  doth  wear  the  crown  immortal 

On  her  youthful,  beauteous  brow. 

"  Still  we  know  fond  friends  are  weeping 
O'er  the  loved,  untimely  dead, 


12V 

Borne  away,  so  sad  and  lonely,* 
To  the  churchyard's  lowly  bed. 

"  But  when  this  dark  vail  is  riven, 

Which  beclouds  their  spirit-eyes, 
They  shall  look  upon  the  cherished 

In  the  mansions  of  the  skies. 

"  Weep  not,  then,  my  child,  for  Sarah, 

She  is  happy  'mid  the  blest ; 
Though  no  more  she  shares  your  pleasures, 

Naught  can  mar  her  blisstul  rest." 

*  Having  died  of  the  infectious  disease  small-pox,  few  dared  accom- 
pany her  re  mains  to  the  grave. 


128 


FOR  THE  SORROWING  WIFE. 

He's  gone  !  his  day  of  life  how  fleet 
(Too  soon,  methinks,  has  set  his  sun); 

And  friends  bereaved  no  more  may  greet, 
This  side  the  grave  their  absent  one. 

Then  let  her  weep  ;  the  heart  would,  break 
If  grief  found  not  relief  in  tears ; 

Or  reason  would  its  throne  forsake, 
And  life  become  a  "  night  of  years." 

Oh,  let  her  weep — a  bUght  is  o'er 
^The  prospects  of  her  earthly  Eden, 

For  death  hath  entered  love's  bright  door, 
The  "  twain  in  one  "  his  shaft  has  riven. 

Oh,  let  her  weep — chide  not,  I  pray, 
That  she  for  one  so  dear  should  mourn; 

Naught  can  on  earth  her  loss  repay, 

Or  soothe  her  breast,  with  anguish  torn. 

Aye,  let  her  weep — there's  One  on  high 
That  marks  the  stricken  bosom's  woe; 

'Tis  He  alone  can  wipe  the  eye, 
And  solace  to  the  soul  bestow. 

Weep,  then,  fond  one,  for  Christ  h<ith  said 
Comfort  to  those  that  mourn  he'll  give; 

And  with  the  loved,  lamented  dead 
Thou  yet  in  Paradise  may'st 


129 

Weep,  then,  if  tears  relief  can  bring, 
Yet  seek  in  Christ  the  sovereign  balm, 

And  'neath  the  shadow  of  his  wing 
Thy  soul  will  find  a  heavenly  calm. 

And  when  thy  spirit  soars  in  flight, 
'Tis  he — the  early  lost — will  come, 

And  bear  thee  on  love's  pinions  bright 
Up  to  thy  fair  celestial  home. 


130 


TO . 

Mourn  not  o'er  the  dear  one's  exit, 
For  she  heeds  the  tears  ye  shed, 

And  your  grieving  wounds  her  spirit 
Well  ye  know  "  She  is  not  dead."* 

Gently,  kindly,  oft  returning, 

Fain  she'd  still  your  rising  sighs ; 

Though  on  angels'  pinions  soaring, 
She  hath  ranged  the  upper  skies. 


TWO  VERY  POOH  IMPROMPTU  PIECES,  A  LITTLE 

RHYMISII,  UPON  BEING  INVITED  TO 

A  FESTIVAL. 

Dearest  ladies,  pray  allow  us 

To  return  our  thanks  to  all, 
For  the  friendly  favors  shown  us 

At  your  New  Year's  festival. 

'Twas  delightful,  ladies,  surely; 

But  indeed  'twas  not  our  due, 
To  o'erflow  our  hearts  so  truly 

With  such  gratitude  to  you. 

Dainty  viands,  music  heavenly, 

Tableaux  lovely  to  the  sight; 
Ah,  we  thank  you  very  kindly 

For  that  happy  New  Year's  night. 

*  "She  is  not  dead,  but  si eepeth."— TESTAMENT. 


131 


TO  MR.  H TH,  UPON  THE  PRESENT  OF  A 

ROSY  CAKE  OF  SOAP. 


Thank  you,  Mr.  H , 

For  the  sweet,  rosy  cake 

Of  soap  that  you  sent; 

'Twas  not  soft — do  you  take  ? 

And  since  I  well  know 

It  can  ne'er  make  me  pretty;. 
If  it  can't  make  me  neat, 

Why  the  more  is  the  pity. 

Then  if  you  should  meet  me 
Ere  'tis  gone,  sir,  I  ween, 

(If  'tis  not  unexpected,).. 
My  face  shall  be  clean. 


132 


OUR  COTTAGE. 


Lonely  looks  our  little  cottage, 

AVhen  stern  winter  holds  her  reign; 

All  alone  adown  the  meadow, 
Skirted  round  by  hill  and  plain. 

Each  tall  tree,  hard  by,  is  leafless ; 

Not  a  shrub  its  verdure  wears  ; 
And  the  greensward  on  earth's  bosom 

Now  a  snowy  mantle  bears. 

Not  a  songster  from  the  green  bough 
Warbles  forth  its  silver  strain  ; 

Never  bird  now  save  the  snow-bird 
Taps  at  Mary's  window  pane. 

Never  now  the  lowing  cattle 
Graze  before  the  open  dour, 

Waiting  for  sweet  Ann,  the  milk-maid, 
Till  her  day's-work  spinning's  o'er. 

Never  now  the  cheerful  farmer 
Comes  from*labors  of  the  field, 

While  earth  drapes  in  sheening  mantle, 
Or  night's  shades  their  sceptre  wield. 

Yet  though  all  without  seems  cheerless, 
In  our  cot  bright  love-beams  shine  ; 

And  with  grateful  hearts  and  happy 
Much  we  taste  of  bliss  divine. 

And  as  by  the  glowing  hearth-stone 
We  partake  our  simple  cheer, 

Naught  to  us  seems  half  so  pleasant '  . 
As  this  lonely  cottage  here. 


133 


A  PUFF. 
In  return  for  a  beautiful  book. 


Friends,  listen  a  moment  to  truth— nothing  more — 
If  you  wish  to  be  charmed,  go  to  *  *  fine  store ; 
There  are  visions  of  beauty  !  such  pictures  !  such  vol- 
umes ! 

The  which,  if  half  told,  would  fill  newspaper  columns  ! 
There  are  books  filled  with  science,  and  books  to  amuse— 
Walk  in — you  will  find  just  whatever  you  choose. 
More  splendid  gilt  pnges,  or  more  handsomely  bound, 
Or  lovelier  plates,  you'll  ne'er  meet  the  world  round. 
Say,  is't  not  a  fairy  sight  ?     Who  can  but  linger 
To  turn  the  neat  leaves  with  the  tip  of  love's  finger? 
Each  taste  is  here  catered  to,  from  warriors  to  lovers* 
Statesmen,  poets,  divines,  or  the  sea's  gallant  rovers  ; 
'Tis  a  sight  for  the  eye  and  a  feast  for  the  soul — 
Ye  spirits  that  hunger,  sip  from  this  "  golden  bowl ;" 
On  Elysian  draughts  ye  may  here  safely  count, 
Or  nepenthes  more  soothing  than  the  Lethean  fount 
In  short,  if  you're  seeking  for  knowledge  or  pleasure, 
At  this  beautiful  book-store  'tis  iound  without  m;  asure. 


134 


CAN  IT  BE  WE  KNOW  SO  LITTLE  OF  ETERNITY  ? 


When  Time  and  Tide  shall  roll  no  more 
Along  this  evil,  earthly  shore — 
When  day  and  night  have  passed  away 
To  mingle  in  eternal  day — 
When  pain  and  sorrow  shall  have  fled 
To  dwell  in  regions  where  the  dead — 
And  yet  not  dead,  but  dying — lie, 
Wishing,  in  vain,  that  they  might  die — 
When  sun  and  moon  have  turned  to  blood, 
And  drowned  the  wicked  in  the  flood — 
When  man  no  more  shall  curse  the  name 
Of  the  eternal  great  "  I  Am  " — 
Oh,  then,  and  not  till  then,  shall  rest 
The  ransomed  spirits  of  the  blest — 
Oh,  then,  and  not  till  then,  shall  we 
Have  tasted  of  eternity. 


135 


UPON    OUR    CHURCH    BEING   TORN   DOWN   TO 

GIVE  PLACE  TO  A  NEW  AND  MORE 

STYLISH  ONE. 


Farewell,  old  church  ! 


Farewell,  old,  cherished  church,  farewell  1 
We  now  can  look  on  thee  no  more — 

Thy  walls  are  leveled  to  the  earth  ; 
Thy  holy  mission  here  is  o'er. 

Oh  ruthless  hands  and  .hearts  of  stone, 
The  heavenward  spire  how  could  ye  fell  ? 

And  raze  the  sacred  temple  low, 

Where  Christian  spirits  loved  to  dwell  ? 

Alas  !  we  never  more  may  tread 

Those  hallowed  aisles  we  oft  have  trod  ; 

Nor  prayer  nor  praise  from  contrite  hearts 
Within  those  courts  shall  rise  to  God. 

Nor  from  that  consecrated  desk 

Our  p  stor's  voice  shall  we  e'er  hear, 

Breathing  the  gospel-tidings  glad, 
The  sin-sick  soul  and  sad  to  cheer. 

Farewell,  old,  cherished  church,  farewell ! 

Another  fane  may  point  above ; 
But  who  of  us  again  may  trace 

The  temple  of  our  early  love  ? 


136 


LINES    SUGGESTED    BY   THE    APPROACHING 

DEDICATION  OF  OUR  NEW  CHURCH, 

JANUARY,  1852. 


An  impromptu,  almost. 

Our  Father  in  heaven  ! 

We  hither  are  come, 
To  pray  Thee  to  hallow 

This  temple,  Thy  home. 

In  kindness,  dear  Siviour, 

Look  down  from  above, 
And  sanctify  to  Thee 

This  mark  of  our  love. 

Here,  Lord,  let  our  voices, 

In  union  upraised, 
By  love  pure  and  holy, 

Resound  to  Thy  praise. 

Oh,  here  let  us  drink 

From  life's  welling  spring, 

As  we  list  to  the  words   . 
Of  our  Shepherd  and  King. 

Oh,  here,  in  contrition, 
With  heart-worship  meet, 

Let  us  bow  in  Thy  presence — 
With  our  "  tears  wash  Thy  feet/' 


137 

Here,  here  let  the  sinner, 

Repentant  and  sad, 
Be  cleansed  by  Thy  blood — 

By  forgiveness  made  glad. 

And  here  let  the  mourner, 
In  affliction  bowed  low, 

Find  a  balm  for  each  sorrow, 
A  cure  for  each  woe. 

Our  Father  in  heaven  ! 

Consecrate,  we  entreat, 
This  temple  on  earth, 

For  Thy  worship  made  meet. 

May  seraphs  and  angels 
O'er  its  portals  keep  ward, 

That  naught  may  defile 
This  true  house  of  our  Lord. 


138 


LINES  SUGGESTED  BY  A  VISIT  IN  JAIL  TO  THE 

UNFORTUNATE  PRISONER  BICKFORD, 

CONFINED  ON  A  CHARGE  OF 

THE  MURDER  OF  SECOR. 

But  little  more  than  one  score  years  have  passed 
Since  lay  an  infant  on  its  mother's  breast ; 

Her  cherub  babe  the  mother  fondly  clasped — 
Loved,  tiny  form  ! — how  sweet  its  nestling  rest ! 

'Twas  a  fair  child — that  mother's  earthly  joy — - 

No  sadness  brooded  o'er  the  baby-boy. 

Few  years  had  sped — I  saw  a  child  at  play 
Within  the  garden  gate  ;  with  lightsome  feet 

'Twas  tripping  happily  the  hours  away, 

Gazing  at  insects  bright  and  flow'rets  sweet — 

Fair  innocent !  none  would  have  dreamed  the  stain 

Of  guilt  would  ever  light  upon  its  name. 

A  few  years  more — I  saw  a  stapling  boy 

Wand'ring  o'er  fields  or  by  the  running  brook, 

With  loaded  gun,  the  birdling  to  destroy, 
Or  bait  to  lure  the  fish  unto  his  hook. 

But  those  were  trifles — so  the  truant  thought — 

And  older  boys  the  wicked  lesson  taught. 

Again  time  sped — confined  within  a  cell 
Of  narrow,  darksome  walls  and  iron  grate, 

Behold  the  youth  !     'Tis  useless  to  rebel, 
Or  curse,  or  mourn,  alas  !  his  dismal  fate. 

A  crime  too  dire  for  one  so  young  to  dare — 

A  woeful  crime  had  brought  the  prisoner  there. 


139 


I  gazed  on  him  where  no  glad  sunlight  beams, 
Nor  flow'r's  perfume,  nor  wild  wood  minstrelsy, 

Nor  aught  of  nature  cheers  the  spirit's  dreams- 
Sad  bodings  of  its  coming  destiny — 

A  dread,  a  ray  less  passage  to  the  tomb  1 

A  shrinking  of  the  soul  to  meet  its  doom  ! 

'Twas  then  methought  of  that  fond  mother's  grief, 
And  cruel  agoDy  that  bowed  her  frame  ; 

No  bitter  tears  can  bring  her  soul  relief, 

Nor  kind  words  soothe  the  anguish  of  her  pain, 

Unless  she  deem  him  guiltless  of  the  blow 

That  laid  a  mortal,  all  unthinking,  low. 

Then,  too,  methought  of  that  young  sister*  dear, 
That  climbed  so  lovingly  upon  his  knee — 

Must  she,  the  darling  of  his  heart,  e'er  hear 
A  felon's  sentence — deemed  a  just  decree —    . 

Upon  the  brother  she  in  innocence 

Had  counted  guiltless  of  the  least  offense  ? 

Father,  forefend  !  if  guilt,  indeed,  hath  stained 
The  soul  ot  him  within  that  prison  drear ; 

If  trusting  friends  with  this  sad  truth  are  pained, 
And  naught  below  their  sinking  hearts  can  cheer, 

Oh,  let  them  look  above,  where  mercies  wait — 

If  penitent,  they'll  meet  at  heaven's  gate. 

Or  if,  perchance,  fair  justice  jet  shall  tell 
Him  blameless  of  that  deed  in  forest  wild ; 

If  by  another's  hand  the  murdered  fell, 

Restore,  then,  doubly  blest,  the  injured  child. 

Let  noble  acts  attend  his  upward  way. 

And,  Father,  all  his  wrongs  in  love  repay. 


*  A  little  sister  that  sat  upon  his  knee,  with  arms  twined  around 
hie  neck,  in  court,  previous  to  his  regular  trial. 


140 


LINES. 


Embodying  a  wishieported  to  have  been  made  by  the  mothor  of  the 

prisoner  Bicktbrd,  after  his  conviction,  and  a  few  days 

before  the  execution  of  his  sentence  of  death. 


u  Jailor,  be  not  over  cruel — 

This  one  boon  pray  grant  to  me — 

Listen  to  a  mother's  pleading, 
As  she  bows  to  thee  the  knee. 

"  He  is  still  beloved — my  first-born — 

Of  my  life  the  dearer  part ; 
Grant,  in  pity  grant  this  favor — 

Bless  this  once  my  aching  heart. 

"  On  my  dear  one's  precious  forehead 

I  my  loving  lips  would  press; 
I  would  seal  a  mother's  pardon 

With  a  fond,  a  last  caress. 

*'  Take  me  to  him,  human  jailor ; 

I  will  use  no  art  to  free 
Him  from  sufFring  his  just  penance, 

E'en  though  hard  his  doom  must  be. 

"  Dost  thou  doubt  me  ? — bind  and  guard  me, 

Every  needful  caution  take  ; 
Bind  my  boy,  my  child,  my  darling — 

Heed  me  lest  my  heart-strings  break  ! 

"I  would  know  him  once  more  near  n,e, 
Feel  his  breath  upon  my  brow  ; 


141 

Would  to  God  that  I  might  clasp  him 
To  this  yearning  bosom  now  ! 

"But  so  blest  a  boon  I  ask  not — 
'  Tis  to  press  his  pallid  cheek 

Ere  he  leaves  this  world  of  sorrow, 
This  the  priceless  gift  I  seek. 

"  Do  not  chide  me  nor  refuse  me — 
'Tis  his  mother  cries  to  thee — 

Hear  me ;  heed  me  ;  God  reward  thee, 
When  thou  bend'st  to  J3im  the  knee." 

Thus,  with  tears,  the  stricken  woman 

Wildly,  earnestly  did  plead. 
Didst  thou  yield  to  her  entr.  aty — 

Of  her  simple  wish  take  heed  ? 

Man,  bethink  thee  of  thy  mother, 
Ere  thou  left  thy  parent's  care  ; 

Had  fe'l  death  come  nigh  unto  thee, 
And  had  one  thus  spumed  her  prayer! 

Or  bethink  thee  of  thy  darlings, 
Were  one  doomed  a  felon's  end ; 

Wouldst  thou  deem  a  being  mortal 
Who  would  not  such  prayer  attend  ? 

Weeping,  broken  hearted  woman, 
Thou  inay'st  clasp  thy  child  above — 

God  can  pity  !  God  can  pardon  ! 
He'll  rega  d  a  mother's  Jove. 

There  thy  erring  one  may  greet  thee. 

Washed  and  every  siu  forgiven. 
Trust  in  Jesus — He'll  sustain  thee 

Till  ye  meet  again — in  heaven. 


143 


now  MUCH  i 


How  much  I  sin  ! 

How  oft  misstep  and  s  ip  ! 
When  most  I  would  do  right, 

How  sadly  trip  ! 

In  closet*  oft, 

Bowed  low  in  earnest  prayer, 
Why  do  I  fail  so  much, 

If  God  be  there  ? 

Can  tempter  come, 

When  I  my  soul  up'ift, 

With  greater  power  to  try 
My  faith  to  sift  ? 

Oh,  when  shall  I 

O'er  sin  a  victory  gain  ? 
Through  Jesus'  blood  alone 

I  can  atta;n. 


*  "Eutor  into  thy  closet,"  &c.— TESTAMENT. 


143 


GOD  PITY  THE  POOR. 


God  pity  the  poor, 

Without  shelter  secure  ; 
For  the  cold  wind  of  winter  is  biting  and  sore  ; 

'Tis  whistling  and  tapping, 

And  lustily  rapping, 
To  be  ushered  in  at  each  casement  and  door. 

Close  tightly  the  shutters ; 

The  wind  rattles  and  mutters, 
And  boldly  creeps  in  through  each  crevice  and  pore. 

To  the  fire  draw  nigher, 

Pile  the  faggots  on  higher  ; 
God  pity  and  shelter  the  suffering  poor. 

Give  each  one  a  heart, 

Who  has  plenty,  to  part 
With  a  small  share,  at  least,  of  their  provident  store. 

All  the  wealthy  possess 

Is  the  gift  of  thy  grace — 
God  soften  their  hearts  to  the  suffering  poor. 

The  cold  wind  is  howling 

Round  the  poor  man's  frail  dwelling, 

And  shrieking  and  blowing  through  casement  and  door; 
Without  food,  without  fuel, 
Though  the  storm  rages  cruel — 

God  pity  and  shield  an.l  provide  for  the  poor. 


144 


SNOWING. 

Little  snow-flake,  comir  g  down, 
While  the  skies  above  us  frown, 
(Lighter  than  the  downy  feather,) 
Thou  dost  tell  of  wintry  weather. 

On  the  door-sill,  in  the  casement, 
On  the  street  and  on  the  pivement, 
On  the  pretty  silver  lake, 
Thou  art  falling,  little  flake. 

Littlo  wee  thing,  everywhere, 
On  the  earth  or  in  the  air, 
Thou  art  resting  or  art  flying, 
While  the  wintry  winds  are  sighing. 

Covered  is  each  hill-  op's  brow 
With  thy  mantle,  feathery  snow  ; 
Thither  urchins  in  their  glee, 
With  their  sleds  and  shoutings,  flee. 

Upward  drawing,  upward  riding, 
Boys  hurrahing  ! — downward  sliding; 
Oh,  such  sport  on  earth  was  never 
As  boys  have  this  wintry  weather. 

Hark  !  the  sleigh-bells1  tinkle,  jingle, 
With  the  merry  voices  mingle; 
Scarcely  has  the  snow-flake  rested, 
Ere  its  slippery  virtue's  tested. 


U3 

Little  snow  flake,  thou  dost  cheer  us, 
When  cold  winter  hovers  near  us  ; 
While  to  loving  youth  and  maiden 
Thou  with  joyousness  art  laden. 

Never  was  such  time  for  courting—- 
Cupid with  his  arrows  sporting. 
Naughty  elf,  makes  young  hearts  tingle, 
Chiming  with  the  sleigh-bells'  jingle. 

Ho!  hurra!  what  joyous  nding, 
Chatting,  laughing,  gaily  sliding. 
Other  seasons  bring  us  pleasure — 
Winder,  thou  bilng'st  fullest  measure. 


146 


OUR  CANARY,  "  WILLIE.' 

"Written  for  my  little  girl,  "  Nelly." 


De  ir  Mr.  fellow  coat, 

With  your  sweet,  pretty  note. 

How  you  do  charm  me  ! 
Singing  the  whole  day  long 
Such  a  nice  little  song-— 

Oh,  who  would  harm  thee  ? 

Now,  little  "  Willie,"  sir, 
Don't  get  so  vexed  at  her— 

Nell  is  a  pet,  too — 
Pointing  her  finger  there. 
Should  not  our  "  birdie"  scar 

Nor  should  it  fret  you. 

She  is  but  playing,  "  Will," 
So  do  not  whet  your  bill, 

Harder  to  bite,  sir ; 
But  from  your  little  throat 
Give  her  a  pretty  note — 

Birds  should  not  fight,  sir. 

Fold  up  your  little  wing, 
Pray,  little  "  birdie,"  sing 

Songs  that  are  charming — 
Just  let  her  see  your  eye — 
Don^t  peep  around  so  sly — 

There's  naught  alarming ! 


147 

Please  let  her  pat  your  breast—- 
Don't ruff  your  tiny  crest — 

Flit  not  so  weary  ; 
Soon  I  will  let  you  out, 
Then  you  may  fly  about, 

Lightsome  and  cheery. 

And  when  you're  tired,  then 
You  may  go  back  again 

In  your  snug  nest,  sir — 
Then  you  may  whet  your  bill? 
That  you  may  eat  your  fill, 

Or  you  may  rest,  sir. 

That's  the  way— chirp  again, 
Warble  a  silver  strain — 

Oh,  how  you  charm  me  ! 
Sing  on  the  whole  day  long — 
'Tis  a  sweet,  pretty  song — 

Oh,  who  would  harm  thee  '] 


148 


DEATH  OF  BIRDIE  CANARY. 

Sweet  birdie,  why  liest  thou  so  low  ? 

What  ails  the*,  little  one  ? 
Hop  up  again  upon  thy  perch, 

And  trill  in  merry  tone. 

Birdie,  sweet  Birdie,  dost  tbou  hear? 

Why,  Nellie,  Birdie's  dead  ! 
Darling,  how  came  it  all  about? 

Was't  sick,  or  not  been  fed  ? 

Poor  little  thing  !     I  am  afraid 

It  suffered  much,  indeed  ; 
And  then  to  suffer  all  un helped — 

None  near  it  e'en  to  heed. 

Hush,  Nellie,  hush  !     I  know  'tis  hare! 

To  lose  your  birdie  dear  ; 
But  grieving  thus  will  make  you  sick, 

Nor  make  sweet  birdie  hear. 

Try,  darling,  try  to  dry  your  tears— 
We'll  put  him  in  the  ground, 

Under  a  shady  tree,  near  by, 
And  cover  o'er  the  mound 

With  pretty,  twining,  flowering  vines  3 

And  each  fair  summer  day 
My  Nellie  there  may  sew  and  sing, 

And  while  the  hours  away. 


149 

Try,  darling,  try  to  dry  your  tears— 
"  Why,  mi,  your  eyes  are  wet." 

We  all  loved  birdie  very  mu<  h — 
We'll  miss  our  little  pet. 

We'll  miss  his  pretty  morning  song, 
His  warblings  day  by  day 

Ah  !  Nellie,  mother's  heart  is  weak — 
We'll  put  the  cage  away. 

And  then,  when  birdie's  buried  there, 

Out  in  the  garden  near, 
We  may  not  think  of  him  so  much — 

Ah  !  birdie,  thou  wert  dear. 


150 


MY -COUNTRY  HOME. 


My  heait  is  in  my  country  home  ; 

The  spot  where  I  was  reared 
Is  still  the  brightest  spot  on  earth, 

The  most  to  me  endeared. 
To  childhood's  haunts  and  childhood's  friends 

My  memory  closest  clings, 
And  round  the  dear  paternal  roof 

A  beauteous  halo  flings. 

My  heart  is  in  my  country  home ; 

That  pretty  little  cot, 
Nestled  so  snug  between  the  hills, 

Will  never  be. forgot. 
The  winding,  rippling,  singing  rill, 

That  runs  before  the  door, 
Within  the  chambers  of  my  heart 

Will  wander  evermore. 

My  heart  is  in  my  country  home  ; 

Each  flower  and  bird  and  tree 
Upon  the  tablet  of  my  soul 

Is  stamped  indelibly — 
Where  father,  mother,  ever  kind, 

Three  brothers — noble  boys — 
And  s-ister  round  the  hearth  stone  met, 

And  shared  our  household  joys. 

My  heart  is  in  my  country  home, 
Though  I  am  far  away  ; 


151 

In  other  haunts  my  footsteps  roam, 
In  scenes  where  life  is  gay ; 

But  to  my  childhood's  happy  home 
My  m<  mory  fondest  clings, 

And  round  the  dear  paternal  roof 
A  heavenly  halo  flings. 


153 


TO  A  SISTER  ABOUT  TO  LEAVE  HOME. 


Sweet  sister,  must  it,  can  it  be 

That  we  are  doomed  to  sever  ; 
That  all  our  days  of  mingled  bliss 

Are  past  and  gone  forever  ? 
Those  days  in  which  were  fondly  linked 

Our  hearts  an^l  souls  in  one — 
Tell  me,  sweet  sister,  tell  me  true, 

Have  they  forever  gone  ? 

Yet,  sister,  breathe  it  not  again — 

I  know  "  we  must  be  parted  " — 
But  sing  for  me  a  joyous  strain, 

'Twill  soothe  the  broken-hearted. 
Oh,  once  more  let  me  hear  that  voice, 

While  yet  thou  ling'rest  near  ; 
None  other  e'er  will  charm  like  thine, 

For  none  were  half  so  dear. 

Sweet  sister,  should  we  meet  no  more 

This  side  of  death's  dark  river, 
Our  souls  will  often  mingle  here, 

Till  called  from  earth  to  sever. 
And  shouldst  thou  first  be  called  above, 

Oh,  then,  sweet  sister,  come 
And  woo  me  with  thy  seraph  songs 

Up  to  thy  spirit-home. 


153 


TO  THE  SEA. 


After  the  sinking  of  the  Arctic. 

Tell  me,  dark  sea,  thy  mission  here  ; 

Why  ceaseless  roll  thy  troubled  waves  ? 
For  what  avail  that  thou  dost  rear 

Thy  billows  high  o'er  ocean  graves  ? 

"Who  bade  thee  thus,  thou  restless  deep, 
To  yawning  ope  thy  billowy  crest, 

And  low  within  thy  bosom  keep 

The  loved  and  lost  ones  gone  to  rest  ? 

"  Who  bade  me  ?     Ask  thy  God  above ; 

I  answer  but  His  firm  decree ; 
And  those  who  on  my  waters  rove 

Must  bow  to  destiny  the  knee. 

"What  though  my  surges  swell  and  fo^m, 
And  now  and  then  are  yawning  wide; 

Am  I  not  still  the  trav'ler's  home  ? 
Am  I  not  still  the  trav'ler's  pride  ? 

"  What  though  I  oft  present  a  snare, 
To  turn  man's  weary  feet  astray  ; 

And  in  my  bosom  treasures  rare, 
And  untold  secrets  hidden  lay  ? 

"  What  though  I  oft  man's  life  doth  end, 
And  make  my  bed  his  early  grave ; 

Still,  am  I  m.t  the  trav'ler's  friend  ? 
Dost  still  his  vessel  plow  my  wave  ?" 


154 


Thou  deep,  unconquerable  deep, 

Roll  on,  then,  roll  thy  billowy  waves, 

Though  millions  thou  dost  cause  to  sleep, 
And  moulder  in  their  watery  graves. 

Roll  on,  nor  cease  thy  raging  moan, 
Though  wild  and  fearful  it  may  be; 

Roll  on,  yet  there  is  One  alone 
At  last  shall  deign  to  conquer  thee. 

Though  once  thou  burst  thine  iron  band, 
And  overwhelmed  creation's  bound, 

Yet  there  is  One  by  whose  command, 
Thou,  too,  shalt  feel  the  deadly  wound. 

Roll  on,  then;  roll  till  time  shall  end, 
Unheedful  of  man's  piercing  cries; 

Roll  on,  and  rage,  though  thou  dost  rend 
Millions  of  hearts  in  sacrifice. 


155 


THE  BLACK-SEALED  LETTER. 

Friends,  did  you  e'er,  when  far  from  home, 

Await  a  letter,  and  with  joy 
Clap  your  young  hands  when  you  espied 

One  brought  you  by  the  good  post-boy  $ 

Away  from  early  friends,  at  school, 
One  day,  at  recess,  blithe  and  fleet 

My  young  feet     jr  the  common  ran, 
Thus  joyously,  a  line  to  greet. 

I  took  it,  turned  it  o'er  to  break 
The  seal — 'twas  black  1  my  palsied  hand 

Dropped  by  niy  side ;  like  marble  cold 
I  stood,  as  changed  by  magic  wand. 

At  length  my  life-blood  coursed  again — 

I  took  the  letter  and  I  read, 
My  brother,  far  away  at  sea, 

That  brother  dear,  it  said,  "  was  dead." 

O  God  !  that  none  may  ever  know 
Such  hour  of  woe  as  then  I  knew  ; 

Though  sorrow  since  has  marked  my  brow, 
That  seal  is  fresh  before  my  view. 


156 


MY  GRANDMOTHER. 


I  love  my  good  old  grandmother, 

That  feeble,  quiet  dame, 
As  helpless  as  an  infant  child 

That  scarce  can  lisp  its  name. 

She  is  so  very  hard  to  hear, 

And,  too,  so  very  blind  ; 
Her  body  paralyzed  in  part, 

She's  as  a  child  in  mind. 

Her  constant  friend,  the  ticking  clock, 
Four  times  an  hour  each  day 

She  asks  the  time  ;  and,  sitting,  rocks 
The  lagging  hours  away  ; 

Save  when,  in  curious  mood,  she  wheels 

About  her  easy  chair, 
To  learn,  by  feeling  round  the  room, 

The  strange  things  lying  there. 

I  pity  my  good  grandmother ; 

She  bears  her  lot  so  meek — 
And  can  but  press  with  loving  lips 

Her  paled  and  withered  cheek. 

So  nearly  deaf  and  nearly  blind, 

And  crippled,  too,  withal, 
Methinks  she,  longing,  waits  to  hear 

Her  heavenly  Father's  call. 


157 

Ninety  years  old  that  grand-dame  is, 

In  second  infancy, 
No  trace  of  firmer  years  is  left 

Save  early  memory. 

Oh,  memory  is  a  blessed  light 
That  shines  within  the  breast 

Of  good  old  earthly  wanderers, 
To  cheer  their  path  to  rest. 


158 


OUR  LITTLE  "  MAY." 


My  babe  was  sleeping  on  my  breast, 

So  sweetly,  yester-eve, 
I  kissed  its  life- warm  lips  in  joy, 

Nor  thought  so  soon  to  grieve. 
But  oh,  an  angel  from  the  skies 

Has  borne  our  love  away, 
And  we  are  left  to  weep  o'er  her, 

Our  darling  little  "  May." 

Her  tiny  form,  now  cold  in  death, 

Is  gathered  for  the  grave  ; 
No  tears  will  bring  our  jewel  back, 

Though  they  her  body  lave. 
But  friends  will  lay  her  in  the  earth, 

Beneath  the  willow  trees, 
Whose  pliant  branches,  bending  low, 

Sigh  to  the  summer  breeze. 

There  birds  will  sing  their  matin  songs, 

And  we  at  evening  hour 
Will  kneel  beside  her  precious  dust, 

And  breathe  our  vesper  prayer. 
And  daily  to  her  little  grave 

Our  silent  steps  will  stray, 
Till  we  are  called  in  heaven  to  meet 

Our  own  sweet  angel  May. 


159 


PLAIN  WORK  AND  PLAIN  WORDS. 


The  useful  life. 


He  has  spaded  and  plowed, 

And  the  ground  has  been  sowed 
With  seed,  an  abundance  to  yield ; 

As  he  planted  with  care, 

The  crops  promise  fair 
In  garden  and  meadow  and  field. 

The  corn  now  is  hoed, 

The  grass  has  been  mowed, 
Nor  rest  you,  good  farmer,  from  toil; 

But  at  it  again, 

You  must  cradle  the  grain, 
Ere  the  over-ripe  kernel  shall  spoil. 

The  reapers  are  gone, 

The  harvesting's  done, 
Now  garner  up  safely  the  wheat 

Lest  dew  or  lest  rain 

Should  smut  the  cut  grain, 
And  nothing  be  left  us  to  eat. 

Now,  fall  winds  are  sighing, 

The  flowers  are  dying, 
The  hoar-frost  is  nipping  the  leaves; 

'Tis  time  to  be  thrashing, 

The  flail  should  be  crashing — 
Haste,  farmer,  and  riddle  the  sheaves. 


1GO 

The  apples  now  fall, 
Come,  boys,  girls  and  all, 

With  baskets,  and  gather  the  fruit. 
When  come  snow  and  ice, 
'Twill  then  taste  so  nice  ; 

Let's  with  it  our  cellar  recruit. 


Then  comes  the  potato, 

(The  cabbages  ditto,) 
The  onion,  turnip,  carrot  and  beet — 

Put  part  into  the  ground, 

And  heap  on  them  a  mound, 
And  in  spring  there'll  be  something  to  eat. 

Now  ceases  the  digging, 

And  comes  on  the  killing — 
The  farmer  is  hard  at  his  work  ; 

With  scraping  and  scalding, 

With  cutting  and  salting, 
He  lays  down  his  beef  and  his  pork. 

Then  comes  on  the  snow — 

To  the  woods  he  must  go, 
To  fell  the  birch,  maple  and  oak; 

Through  felling  and  cording, 

The  sled  he  is  loading, 
And  the  oxen  must  tug  in  the  yoke. 

Now,  with  plenty  of  wood, 

And  plenty  of  food, 
He  sits  by  his  bright  blazing  hearth  ; 

Blest  with  peace  and  good  health, 

Contentment  and  wealth, 
What  knows  the  good  farmer  of  dearth  ? 


161 

Oh,  a  farmer's  life, 

Free  from  turmoil  and  strife, 
Is  the  chosen  life  I  lead; 

With  the  sweat  on  my  brow 

I  handle  the  plow, 
And  put  in  the  earth  the  good  seed. 

Then  I  weed  and  I  hoe, 

And  the  waving  grass  mow, 
And  cradle  and  garner  my  wheat; 

Then  with  threshing  and  digging, 

And  fatting  and  killing, 
I've  abundance  to  spare  and  to  eat. 


162 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  WILLIAM  H.  S  AFFORD— 1 846. 


The  wife  of  his  bosom  mourned  over  the  dead, 

As  she  thought  of  the  gloom  of  his  cold  narrow  bed. 

She  had  wept  till  the  fountain  of  tears  was  dried  up, 

O'er  the  sorrow  just  tasted  from  life's  bitter  cup; 

While  the  deep-breathing    sigh  she  heaved  from  her 

breast, 

Told  the  anguish  that  still  her  sad  spirit  oppressed. 
The  eyelids  drooped  heavy  o'er  the  pale  cheek  of  woe, 
And  the  pulse,  aching,  throbbed,   though  no  tear-drop 

could  flow, 

As  she  turned  from  the  grave  to  the  days  that  were  gone, 
With  the  soul  of  the  loved,  that  could  never  return. 
She  thought  of  the  time  when  he  wooed  her  his  bride, 
And  the  sweet  happy  hours  she  then  spent  by  his  side. 
She  looked  back  on  the  day  when  he  claimed  her  his 

own, 

While  the  smile  of  affection  on  his  co.untenance  shone, 
And  felt  how  true-hearted,  and  noble  and  kind, 
Was  the  bosom  on  which  she  in  fondnesss  reclined; 
And  she  smiled  mid  her  grief  when  she  thought  how  he 

pressed 

Their  first  nursling  babe  to  his  own  manly  breast — 
How  his  eye  beamed  in  pride  as  years  brought,  one  by 

one, 

A  fair  loving  daughter,  and  two  darling  sons; 
And  how,  as  time  sped,  when  each  eve's  twilight  came, 
He  would  join  in  their  play  as  they  echoed  his  name, 
Till,  weary  of  sporting,  they  lisped  their  short  prayers, 
And  nestled  in  sleep,  free  from  infancy's  cares. 
Aye,  she  saw  him  again  by  their  glad,  social  hearth, 
As  the  three  frolicked  round  him  in  innocent  mirth; 


163 

And  she  heard  their  sweet  prattle  as  they  sat  on  his  knee, 
And  his  softly  breathed,    "Hush!"  at  their  too  noisy 

glee; 
Then  the  warm  kiss  of  love  that  he  pressed  on  each 

cheek, 
As  they  lisped  their  "  good-night,"  ere  they  scarce  learned 

to  speak. 

And  she  knew,  as  she  thought  of  the  scenes  of  the  past, 
That  such  moments  of  joy  were  too  blissful  to  last; 
And  deep  on  the  tablet  of  mem'ry  she  traced 
His  last  dying  look,  which  can  ne'er  be  effaced; 
While  her  heart  bled  afresh  as  she  turned  to  the  day 
When  the  loved  of  her  bosom  was  passing  away. 

*  *  *  *  #  •* 

The  young,  widowed  mother  sat  cheerless  and  lone 
Again  by  the  hearth  where  the  glad  light  once  shone. 
Long  she  silently  gazed  on  the  tenantless  chair 
That  still  stood  by  her  side,  as  if  waiting  him  there, 
And,  listening,  longed  for  the  voice  that  was  dear, 
For  the  words  of  affection  she  once  used  to  hear; 
But  in  vaia,  for  he  came  not,  the  hours  dreary  sped, 
Her  husband  was  laid  mid  the  buried  and  dead, 
And  she  sighed  as  she  thought  she  should  see  him  no 

more, 

Till  she  met  him,  alas  !  on  Eternity's  shore. 
A  step  caught  her  ear — two  fair,  bright-eyed  boys, 
The  hope  of  their  father,  the  life  of  his  joys, 
With  the  daughter  on  whom  he  had  scarce  breathed  a 

breath 

To  grieve  her  young  heart  ere  he  sank  down  in  death, 
Gently  entering,  sought  her,  and,  hand  clasped  in  hand, 
Sadly  asked  for  their  father— that  fond  little  band. 
Then  she  wept  for  the  dear,  helpless  babes  he  had  left, 
Of  a  father's  kind  care  in  their  childhood  bereft; 
And  she  lifted  a  prayer — 'twas  "  O,   God  !  look  from 

Heaven, 

Be  a  father  to  them  Thou  in  wisdom  hast  given." 
She  wept,  though  she  knew  they  should  meet  him  again 


164 

Where  the   eye  is   not  dimmed   and  the  heart   is  not 

pained; 
Though  she  knew  he  had  soared  where  the  weary  ones 

rest, 

And  was  leaning  in  love  on  his  good  Savior's  breast — 
She  wept  for  herself,  so  forsaken,  forlorn, 
But  grieved  more  in  her  heart  for  the  babes  she  had 

borne  ; 

And  her  cry  rose  anew  to  the  Father  of  Love — 
"Oh  !  in  mercy,  in  mercy  look  down  from  above." 
A  calm  rested  on  her,  the  tear-drop  was  dry — 
"  My  promise*  is  firm,"  was  the  Father's  reply. 

*  "  I  will  be  a  Father  to  the  fatherless." 


VENUS. 

Bright,  sweet  little  Yenus  ! 

Pet  star  of  the  sky  ! 
Thou  look'st  down  so  mild 

With  thy  clear,  silvery  eye, 
That  methinks  some  kind  angel, 

Which  from  earth  winged  its  flight, 
Gazes  lovingly  on  me 

From  thy  heavenward  height. 

Had  I  wings  that  would  waft  me, 

I'd  try,  lovely  star, 
If  thou  wert  the  realm 

Of  some  soul  wandered  far 
From  this  dark  vale  of  sorrow  !— 

Perchance  some  I  love, 
From  earth-scenes  departed, 

Await  me  above, 
On  yon  shining  sphere 

Which  my  gaze  now  doth  meet 


165 

Perchance  on  yon  star 
Is  our  Lord's  "  Mercy-seat." 

Perchance — aye,  perchance — 

With  what  dreams  has  the  mind, 
While  here  by  the  weight 

Of  earth's  fetters  confined, 
Been  fraught,  as  the  eye 

Ranged  the  far  ether  blue, 
And  drank  in  the  light 

Of  the  orbs  shining  through  ! 
Oh  !  shall  we,  then,  know, 

When  the  soul  bursts  its  bars, 
The  glories  that  burn 

On  the  radiant  stars  !. 

.* 

Shall  we,  then,  hear  the  song 

Of  the  spheres  as  they  roll 
In  musical  chime 

To  their  Maker's  control  ! — 
The  jubilant  song, 

That  the  morning  stars  sang, 
When  the  news  through  Heaven's  hosts 

Of  creation's  birth  rang! 
Perchance — aye,  perchance! .... 

How  the  soul  gropes  its  way, 
All  wingless  and  blind, 

To  the  light  of  Life's  Day!  ** 


WORDLESS. 

How,  all  unworded,  in  me  burns 
The  incense  of  my  soul's  deep  fires  ! 

And  vain  my  spirit  strangely  yearns 
To  pour  it  iorth  from  mortal  lyres 


166 


IN  MEMORY  OF  MY  BROTHER  WILLIAM,  WHO 
DIED  JULY  20,  1846. 


And  has  another  much  loved  brother  gone  ! 

Gone,  gone,  O  God!  far  from  our  mortal  view. 
Has  he,  so  soon,  been  summoned  to  Thy  throne, 

There  to  be  judged  !    Is  night  of  darkest  hue, 
Or  bright,  soul-cheering  day  his  lasting  doom  ! 

Dear  brother,  would  to  heaven  that  thou  might  tell 
If  there  is  bliss  in  thy  eternal  home. 

Oh,  could'st  thou  say  to  us  that  all  is  well, 
We  feel,  whate'er  our  lot  below  should  be, 

We  would  rejoice  that  thou  wert  spirit  free. 

I  know  that  once  the  passage  dismal  seemed 

Through  which  thy  soul  must  wing  its  way  to  God  ; 
No  cheering  ray  on  thy  dread  vision  beamed, 

To  light  the  path  by  mortal  never  trod. 
I  know,  full  well,  thou  shrank  from  that  dark  hour, 

When  cruel  Death  should  seize  thy  helpless  clay; 
When  thy  poor,  weakened  frame  should  feel  his  power, 

Though  thou  didst  patient  wait  the  coming  day. 
But  now^vt  is  passed,  are  not  thy  troubles  o'er  ! 

Glad  would  I  know  thou  art  on  heaven's  shore. 

Yet  still  my  selfish  heart  could  naught  but  weep 

At  the  now  sick'ning  loneliness  of  earth, 
Unless  it  knew  that  thou  didst  vigils  keep, 

Ofttimes,  around  our  home  and  native  hearth. 
Oh!  did'st  thou  know  how  longs  mine  ear  to  hear 

Thy  cherished  voice,  in  nature's  tones,  once  more  ; 
How  much  I  wish  thy  company,  to  cheer 

This  bosom,  that  is  sick,  and  sorrow-sore  : 


167 

Thou  wouldst  entreat,  at  least,  that  them  mightst  tell 
Thy  sister  if  with  thee  all  things  were  well. 

0  William!  shall  we  never  meet  again, 
As  we  so  often  here  before  have  met  ! 

"While  I  shall  linger  must  I  feel  the  pain 
That  here  below  thy  sun  has  ever  set ! 

Can  I  ne'er  more  e'en  clasp  thy  clay-cold  hand, 
Nor  on  thy  fair,  pale  forehead  press  a  kiss  ! — 

1  gladly  would,  though  death  has  broke  the  band, 
Which  bound  thy  spirit  to  a  world  like  this. 

And  yet  I  could  not  sorrow  if  by  thee 
A  harp  is  tuned  mid  heaven's  minstrelsy. 

Nay,  I  ne'er  more  shall  see  thee.     Low  in  dust 

Thy  youthful  form  fast  moulders  to  decay; 
While  where,  methinks,  dwell  the  redeemed  and  just, 

Angels  have  wafted  thy  glad  soul  away. 
Yet,  oh,  'tis  hard  to  breathe  the  word  "  farewell;" 

Fain  would  I  think  thee  wont  to  hover  near; 
Thy  holy  presence  would  with  rapture  swell 

The  stricken  breast  with  hopes  so  crushed  and  sere. 
We  grieve,  alas!  that  thou  art  from  us  fled, 

So  early  laid  within  thy  lowly  bed. 

But  why  weep  thus  !    I  am  not  all  alone, 

One  brother  still  is  left  for  me  to  love  ; 
Together  we  may  sympathize  and  mourn, 

Till  one  of  us  shall  be  called  home  above. 
Yes,  one  of  all  the  three  is  left  me  still, 

One  link  in  that  rent  chain  remains  the  same  ; 
One  dear,  last  link  till  our  great  Father's  will 

From  our  fraternal  band  one  more  shall  claim  ; 
Then  the  lone  lingerer  glad  will  follow,  where 

Death  reigns  no  more,  nor  hopeless,  black  despair. 

Then,  dearest  brother  here,  and  only  one, 
Let  us  prepare  to  meet  the  loved  in  heaven, 


168 

For  soon  on  earth,  I  know,  will  set  our  sun, 

E'en  though  long  days  may  yet  to  us  be  given. 
Our  mother  dear  and  brothers  there  we'll  find, 

And  Jesus,  our  bless'd  Savior,  we  shall  see, 
"Whose  words  of  sweet  compassion,  ever  kind, 

"Will  cause  for  us  a  gladsome  jubilee. 
Come,  dry  these  tears,  though  God  awhile  shall  sever 

Us  from  the  dead,  we'll  meet  in  joy  forever. 

Aye,  our  dear  William,  there  we'll  fondly  meet 

In  rapturous  joy,  known  by  the  blest  alone  ; 
In  converse,  face  to  face,  we  him  will  greet 

in  that  fair  land  where  all  of  bliss  has  flown  ; 
Our  heartstrings,  then,  no  more  with  grief  shall  break, 

Nor  sadness  longer  dim  the  tearful  eye  ; 
For  then  to  bliss  eternal  we  shall  wake, 

When  from  these  bodies  our  freed  spirits  fly. 
Seraphs  and  angels  then  will  constant  be 

Companions  with  us  through  eternity. 

July  31,  1846. 


"FATHER,  HAVE  YOU  NO  HOPE  FOR  ME  ?" 

WOHDS    OP   WILLIAM,  wno   DIED   OP     CONSUMPTION, 

JULY  20,  1846. 


"  Father,  have  you  no  hope  for  me  ?" 

In  anxious  tone,  he  said, 
As  on  his  frail,  decaying  form 

His  saddened  eye  was  laid. 
"  Father,  have  you  no  hope  for  me  ?" 

Is  youth's  fond  promise  flod  ? 
Must  I  so  soon  in  earth's  cold  grave 

Sleep  with  the  silent  dead  ? 

"  Father,  have  you  no  hope  for  me  ?" 

Must  I  ascend  to  heaven, 
There  to  appear  before  the  Judge, 


1G9 

Who  has  the  summons  given, 
To  render  up  my  dread  account, 

And  hear  the  sentence  just? 
Dear  father,  strengthen  my  weak  faith, 

Learn  me  in  Christ  to  trust. 

The  way  of  death  is  dark  and  drear, 

No  ray  of  heavenly  light 
Beams  on  my  lonely  path,  to  bless 

Or  cheer  my  upward  flight. 
Pray,  father,  that  in  dumber  sweet 

Death's  portals  I  may  tread, 
And  wake  in  realms  of  happiness, 

Where  no  sad  tear  is  shed. 

"  Father,  have  you  no  Iw^.e,  for  me  ?" 

In  trembling  voice  he  cried, 
While  the  fond  parent's  deep  distress 

The  father  fain  would  hide  ; 
"  I  dread  to  feel  Death's  cruel  smart, 

While  youth's  hopes  buried  lie, 
And  all  their  fair,  bright  visions  crushed 

Within  my  breast  must  die." 

But  oh!  the  father  could  not  speak; 

He  shunned  the  searching  gaze; 
For  well  he  knew  that  soon  must  cease 

On  earth  his  length  of  days. 
His  tongue  refused  him  utterance, 

lie  could  not  feel  to  quell 
The  glimmering  spark  of  hope  still  left 

In  his  sad  soul  to  dwell. 

But  now  'tis  o'er. . .  .he's  gone  to  worlds 

Of  bliss  beyond  the  sky; 
He  left  at  last  the  joys  of  earth 

Without  a  groan  or  sigh. 
The  prayer  was  heard,  he  "  slept  "  away, 


170 

The  pangs  of  death  unfelt 

'Twas  not  in  vain  that  friends  for  him 
Before  his  Maker  knelt. 

Though  once  he  feared  the  soul's  release, 

None  heard  him  more  repine? 
But  oft  he  spake  of  cherished  ones 

Who  in  Christ's  kingdom  shine; 
With  eyes  of  faith  he  saw  the  Lamb 

Who  cleanseth  us  from  sin, 
And  the  abodes  of  righteousness 

He  sought  to  enter  in. 

Yet  oh!  those  words,  so  piercing  keen, 

Still  ring  within  mine  ear 

"  Father,  have  you  no  hope  for  me  ?" 

Methinks  I  still  can  hear: 
The  quivering  lip,  the  anxious  eye, 

The  sad,  expressive  tone, 
Within  my  heart's  deep  core  shall  live, 

Till  I  from  earth  have  flown. 

Sleep  on,  now,  sacred  dust,  sleep  on, 

Let  naught  disturb  thy  rest, 
Till  the  last  trumpet  bids  thcc  rise 

To  meet  the  ransomed  blest. 
Sleep,  dearest  boy,  guarded  from  harm 

By  God's  protecting  hand, 
Till  we  shall  mingle,  soul  with  soul, 

In  Heaven,  the  Better  Land. 


171 


I  LONG  TO  GO  HOME. 


There  was  music  afloat  in  the  air, 
'Twas  the  song  of  the  spirits  redeemed  ; 

Angels'  notes  with,  such  cannot  compare, 
Though  'twas  heard  as  in  slumber  I  dream. 

Oh,  who  would  not  sigh  for  the  "bright  Eden  shore 

Where  the  spirit  may  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  love! 
Oh,  who  does  not  pant  that  fair  land  to  explore, 

And  mingle  in  joy  with  the  loved  ones  above! 
Can  the  soul  love  the  fetters  earth  binds  on  it  here, 

"Where  briers  and  thorns  choke  the  pathway  we  tread? 
I  fain  would  go  home  to  that  yon  happy  sphere, 

Though  my  body  should  slumbei  awhile  with  the  dead. 

Fair,  fair  land  of  beauty  and  raptures  untold, 

I  fain  wou'd  my  barque  might  be  launched  on  thy  sea; 
Bright  isle  of  the  joyous,  thy  treasures  unfold, 

Let  heaven  in  kindness  my  spirit  set  free. 
Why  should  I  now  cling  to  life's  sorrows  and  cares, 

When  nought  but  a  void  drear  and  dark  fills  my  breast. 
Why  longer  caress  its  temptations  and  snares — 

Oh,  soon  let  me  go  to  the  Home  of  the  Blest. 

I  have  wandered  in  dreams  o'er  the  green  banks   of 

Jordan, 

As  the  smooth,  crystal  waves  glided  silent  along, 
And  1  felt  that  my  soul  was  released  of  the  burden 

That  here  clogged  its  flight  to  the  angelic  throng. 
I  have    walked,    hand    in    hand,    with    the    cherished 

departed, 
In  valleys  all  glittering  with  the  dew-drop  of  pearl, 


172 

And  methought  I  should  never  return  broken-hearted 
Where  sin  o'er  my  barque  should  its  sorrows  unfurl. 

I  have  bathed  in  the  waters  of  Siloah's  fountain, 

While  the  smiles  of  the  Savior  have  brightened  the 

scene, 

And  have  viewed  from  the    summit    of    Sion's  loved 
mountain 

The  glories  that  in  New  Jerusalem  beam. 
I  have  heard  the  rejoicing  o'er  the  soul  that  repented, 

And  sought  for  salvation  in  Christ's  precious  blood, 
And  have  marked  the  freed  spirit  as  it  upward  ascended 

To  join  in  the  praise  of  its  Maker  and  God. 

In  dreams  I  have  sipped  the  perfume  of  the  flowers 

That  fragrantly  bloom  in  the  regions  of  bliss; 
I  have  found  me  repose  in  their  emerald  bowers 

While  the  spirit-bird  warbled  its  carols  of  peace. 
I  have  drank  in  the  strains  of  the  seraphs'  glad  lyre, 

And  the   clear,   thrilling  tones    of    earth's  lost  and 

redeemed: 
But,  alas!  I  awoke,  though  my  soul  was  on  fire, 

My  vision  no  longer  in  ecstasy  beamed. 

Earth  desolate  seemed,  not  a  sound  caught  my  ear, 

Save  the  harsh,  jarring  notes  of  the  passion-stirred  lip; 
Glad  music  no  more  did  my  sad  spirit  cheer 

Nor  the  nectarine  draughts  could  I  still  fondly  sip; 
But  I  thought  of  the  griefs  and  the  woes  of  the  heart 

Which  naught  but  the  hopes  of  a  heaven  could  cure. 
Though  I  tried  to  be  calm,  yet  I  sighed  to  depart, 

And  I  prayed  to  be  mingled  soon,  soon  with  the  pure. 

Oh,  who  would  not  sigh  for  the  mansions  of  rest, 
Where  beings  celestial  from  sorrow  are  free; 

I  fain  now  would  sail  o'er  the  bright  water's  crest 
And  leave  the  rougli  billows  of  life's  raging  sea. 


173 

Is  there  aught  to  entice  the  soul  longer  to  cling 
"Where  shipwreck  and  death  is  the  destiny  given  ? 

I  long  to  go  home,  and  with  myriads  sing, 
And  join  in  the  joys  of  the  dwellers  of  Heaven. 

I  long  to  go  Home!  aye,  I  long  to  go  Home! 

Are  angels  in  waiting  to  bear  me  away? 
In  Eden's  fair  gardens,  oh,  when  may  I  roam  ! 

Oh,  when  shall  my  spirit  be  freed  from  its  clay  ! 
When  shall  I  behold  all  the  glories  that  blaze 

In  majesty  round  the  Eternal's  high  throne, 
And  the  voice  of  thanksgiving  and  gratitude  raise 

In  loud-swelling  anthems,  where  sin  is  unknown? 

August,  1846. 


I  STOOD  BESIDE  HIS  PILLOWED  HEAD. 


I  stood  beside  his  pillowed  head, 

And  wiped  the  death  damp  from  his  brow; 
My  brother,  deeply,  dearly  loved, 

Before  my  eyes  was  dying  now. 

His  youthful  form,  week  after  week, 

Had  wasted  with  a  slow  decay; 
While  racking  cough  and  fevered  cheek, 

Kept  warning  of  the  dreaded  day. 

But,  his  last  days,  his  patient  mind 

Shone  mildly  through  his  o'er  bright  eyes; 

And  well  we  knew  by  every  sign, 
His  soul  was  fitting  for  the  skies. 

The  dreaded  day  at  length  had  come, 
The  parting  moment  fast  drew  near, 

When  I  would  gladly  died  to  save 
From  that  dark  hour  my  brother  dear. 


174 


Each  short'ning  breath  reached  my  heart's  core, 

Tearing  its  fibers  till  they  bled, 
When,  looking  up,  "  'T  will  soon  be  o'er; 

Death  conquers  all!"  lie  meekly  said. 

And  then  between  each  breath  he'd  point 

To  something  that  he  saw  above: 
"  'T  is  beautiful,  though  hard  the  path; 

'T  is  beautiful,  that  Land  of  Love." 

Then  in  a  clear,  ecstatic  tone, 

"  They  come,"  he  cried,  "  in  robes  of  white; 
I  see  the  Lamb,  with  star-gemmed  crown". . . . 

He  slept. . .  .his  soul  had  taken  flight. 

I  stood  beside  his  pillowed  head, 

And  wiped  the  death  damp  from  his  brow; 
But  though  he,  dying,  suffered  then, 

'T  is  those  he  left  who  suffer  now. 


IF    HOPE,   ETC. 

If  Hope  were  Faith,  how  those  we  love 
Would  come  and  soothe  the  hearts  bereft; 

But  oh!  when  Hope — the  Angel-dove — 
Droops  her  white  wings,  the  heart  is  cleft. 


175 


COME,  COME  TO  ME,  BROTHER. 


Come,  come  to  me,  brother,  when  twilight  is  o'er  us ; 

Come  to  me  gently,  arouse  not  a  fear ; 
Tell  me,  oh,  te'l  me  of  heaven's  bright  glories; 

Whisper  them  softly — the  spiiit  can  hear. 

Come  when  the  stars  all  above  us  are  shining, 
Tell  me  on  which  thou  hast  fixed  thine  abode; 

Conic  thou  and  hush  all  this  evil  repining, 

Calm  the  grief- stricken  soul,  wipe  the  tear  that  has 
flowed. 

Come,  tell  of  our  brother  who  left  us  before  thee — 
Oh,"  say  didst  thou  know  him,  so  long  from  thy  side  ? 

Tell  of  our  mother  departed  who  bore  thee — 
Do  they  with  thee  now  in  eternity  bide  ? 

Come,  come  when  the  moonbeams  are  falling  around  us, 
And  the  dew  the  fair  leaflet  is  gemming  the  while, 

And  soothe  in  soft  numbers  the  woe  that  has  bound  us, 
In  telling  the  tales  of  that  far,  sunny  isle. 

Aye,  come  to  me,  brother,  at  even's  still  hour, 
When  man  from  his  labor  sinks  down  to  repose ; 

Leave,  leave  for  a  season  thy  love-lighted  bower — 
Tell  me  all,  ere  night-slumber  my  eyelids  shall  close. 

Aye,  come  to  us  when  the  red  daylight  is  waning, 
And  the  musical  spheres  in  sweet  harmony  chime ; 

Bring  with  thee  a  lyre  of  the  seraphims'  tuning, 
And  sing  us  a  song  of  their  beauteous  clime. 


176 

Come  when  we're  waking,  and  come  when  we're  sleep- 
ing, 

In  dreams  thou  canst  bring  thee  so  plain  to  our  eyes 
The  vision  will  make  us  forget  we  were  weeping, 

And  drive  in  thy  presence  the  clouds  from  our  skies. 

Come,  brother,  come  oft — be  our  guardian-spirit, 
While  here  we  are  waiting  from  sin  a  release; 

And  when  life  is  over,  with  thee  we'll  inherit 
And  joyfully  enter  the  haven  of  peace. 


SORROW. 


Leaden-winged  sorrow,  shall  I  never 
Shut  the  door  upon  thy  back? 

Wilt  thou  haunt  my  pathway  ever, 
Casting  shadows  o'er  my  track? 

Dost  thou  guard  my  spirit's  portal, 
Lest  some  joy  may  enter  in, 

And  I  should  forget  that  mortal 
Suffer  must  to  punish  sin? 


Oh,  could  I  strike  an  angel's  string, 
And  sing  a  song  from  heaven, 

It  were  but  faint  the  offering, 
To  tell  of  Christ's  forgiven. 


177 


"HE'LL  KNOWJflgJWHEN  I  MEET  HIM." 

William. 


He'll  know  me  when  I  meet  him — 

Has  he  forgot  me  now  ? 
He'll  know  me  and  will  greet  me, 

Where  heaven's  beauties  glow ; 
He'll  lead  me  lo  my  mother, 

All  radiant  with  joy, 
As  round  her  twine  the  spirit-arms 

Of  her  first  angel-boy. 

And  with  him,  all  I  dearly  loved 

"Will  know  me  when  I  come, 
And  kindly  they  will  welcome  me 

In  gladness  to  their  home ; 
And  smiling  in  their  joyousness, 

Their  tale  of  bliss  they'll  tell, 
'Mid  all  the  beaming  glories 

"Where  saints  immortal  dwell. 

And  there  in  that  blest  circle, 

Surrounding  Jesus'  feet, 
All  time  unheeded  by  shall  flit, 

Wllle  hearts  ecstatic  beat ; 
And  all  my  soul  has  longed  to  know, 

'Twill  learn  in  that  glad  hour, 
When  love  and  wisdom  joined  in  one, 

Show  forth  the  spirit's  power. 

E'en  now  I  sometimes  dare  to  wish 
That  death  would  haste  the  time 

To  free  me  from  this  earthly  coil 
For  that  celestial  clime. 


178 

For  oh,  my  spirit's  longings, 
They  almost  burs':  the  band 

That  fetters  this  sad,  yearning  heart 
From  that  fair  fatherland. 

And  yet  again  I  turn  me  back 

To  all  the  dear  ones  heie, 
And  ever  with  the  living-loved 

I  fain  would  linger  near. 
My  darling  child,  thy  prattlings  sweet 

Recall  my  thoughts  from  heaven  ; 
For  should  that  tender  tie  be  broke, 

My  hope  of  joy  is  riven. 

He'll  know  me  when  I  meet  him — 

Has  he  forgot  me  cow  ? 
Doth  never  he  in  shining  realms 

On  me  a  thought  bestow  ? 
Do  I  ne'er  feel  the  holy  spell 

His  presence  round  me  flings, 
When  ofttimes  sunk  in  sorrow's  night 

I  soar  from  earthly  things  ? 

Do  I  ne'er  hear  his  gentle  voice, 

Sweeter  than  seraph  tone, 
When  all  around  is  hushed  and  still, 

Breathing  of  loved  ones  gone  ? 
So  softly  soothing  to  mine  ear, 

I  deem  my  soul  away, 
Whe;e  kindred  spirits  twined  in  love 

Meet  in  eternal  day. 

He'll  know  me  when  I  meet  him — 

The  time  is  drawing  near 
When  I  shall  join  the  cherished  one 

Beyond  the  starry  (rphere. 
And  oh,  what  bliss  unspeakable, 

We'll  meet  to  pa;t  no  more; 


179 

For  parted  friends  were  never  known 
On  heaven's  happy  shore. 

He'll  know  us  all — the  kindred  dear 

Who  mourn  him  here  below  ; 
And  warmer  will  our  greeting  be, 

Since  we  are  severed  now ; 
And  joying,  he  will  lead  us  forth, 

And  [joint  us  to  the  throne 
Where  waits  the  Saviour,  merciful, 

To  claim  us  for  his  own. 

He'll  know  me — hush  !  he's  coming  now — 

That  soul-entrancing  strain  ! 
Methinks  that  all  the  kindred  choir 

Are  following  in  his  train. 
List  I  they  have  gone — on  angel-wings 

I  see  them  soar  afar  ! 
Ah,  knew  I  not  he  sometimes  came, 

My  spirit's  guiding  star  ! 

List !  list  again  !  melodious  notes 

Are  wafted  back  on  air; 
Zephyrs  have  caught  the  thrilling  song 

For  my  enravished  ear. 
Those  tones  are  like  the  tones  that  cheered 

My  father's  household  hearth 
In  days  now  gons,  but  sweeter  far — 

They  are  of  heavenly  birth. 

That  song  was  like  the  simple  lays 

My  mother  used  to  sing, 
When  with  her  joined  her  eldest  born* 

Praising  their  righteous  King ! 


*  Sheiidan. 


180 

Though  purer,  higher,  holier, 

Yet  brings  it  back  to  mind 
My  childhood's  early,  happy  home, 

Where  friendship  was  enshrined. 

My  childhood's  home  !     O  God !  what  spot 

On  earth  can  fill  its  place  ? 
What  charms  can  from  my  aching  heart 

It§  memory  erase  ? 
There  love  did  all  its  seeming  prove, 

Cherished  within  each  breast ; 
Now,  onward,  upward  I  must  look, 

Till  conies  my  final  rest. 

My  childhood's  home  !     My  mother's  love ! 

What  music  in  the  words  ! 
Sweet  as  the  silv'ry  strains  that  come 

From  angels'  golden  chords. 
'Twas  she  that  taught  my  lisping  tongue 

Its  first  and  infant  prayer  ; 
'Twas  there  I  knew  a  parent's  worth, 

And  felt  a  parent's  care. 

But  kinder,  dearer,  more  divine 

Will  be  our  Jesus'  love  ; 
More  happy  still  our  dwelling-place, 

When  all  have  met  above. 
There  death  and  all  the  woes  he  brings 

Will  never  enter  in  ; 
But  ever-living,  reigning  joy, 

Free  from  the  stains  of  sin. 

He'll  know  me — ah  !  he's  with  me  now ; 

He's  left  those  sunny  climes, 
And  guides  my  pencil  while  I  trace 

The  hopes  of  future  times  ; 


181 

Yet  tells  me,  as  was  told  before, 
That  man  can  ne'er  conceive 

The  glories  of  bright  Paradise 
For  those  who  Christ  believe. 


She'll  know  me — can  a  mother  e'er 

Forget  the  child  she  bare  ? 
Are  not  her  sheltering  wings  oft  spread 

O'er  me  in  watchful  care  ? 
Doth  she  not  still  before  the  throne 

For  me  in  meekness  pray  ? 
Aye,  she  will  wrestle  for  her  child 

Till  she,  too,  flee  away. 

And  he,  my  elder  brother, 

Who  died  on  ocean's  wave, 
With  no  friend  near  to  soothe  his  pain, 

His  burning  brow  to  lave ; 
To  breathe  for  him  a  cheering  word, 

Or  smoothe  his  sailor-bed  ; 
Oh,  he  will  clasp  his  sister  dear, 

When  she  hath  thither  fled. 

And  he,  my  aged  grandsire, 

Who  oft  did  wipe  the  tears 
Of  grief  from  off  my  youthful  cheek, 

And  calmed  my  childhood's  fears — 
He,  too,  will  swell  the  chorus  grand 

That  through  the  vaulted  sky 
Tells  of  another  ransomed  child 

Borne  up  to  worlds  on  high. 

[Having  alluded  in  the  foregoing  poem  to  a  mother's 
singing,  please  permit  me  to  annex  a  short  extract  from 


182 

a  prose  piece  written  by  my  brother  S.  a  year  or  two 
previous  to  Lis  death.] 

"  With  unutterable  emotions  I  review  many  scenes  of 
other  days,  but  memory  revives  nothing  in  my  heart 
more  melting  than  a  mother's  voice  in  a  mother's  song. 
Not  the  rural  airs  of  the  shepherd's  flute,  nor  the  deep 
tones  of  the  majestic  organ,  nor  the  rolling  blast  of  the 
matchless  bugle  could  ever  awaken  in  my  soul  such 
thrilling  interest  as  that  voice. 

"  Not  even  the  music  of  Nature's  favorites — the  mur- 
murs of  purling  streams,  the  pensive  strains  of  the 
^Eolian  harp,  nor  the  lauded  carols  of  summer  birds 
ever  breathed  half  the  sweetness  that  fell  from  a  mother's 
lips. 

l'  But  the  best  of  voices  has  long  since  ceased  to  yield 
its  melody  on  earth.  They  say  that  in  heaven  the  good 
sing  to  God  and  the  Lamb.  If  so,  there  breathes  in  that 
chorus  the  voice  of  one  who  was  dear  to  me." — SHERI- 
DAN F.  B. 


183 


MARY,  JESUS'  MOTHER. 


Sinner,  didst  thou  e'er  bethink  thee 

Of  the  crucifying  smart, 
When  our  Saviour  bled  and  suffered, 

That  did  wring  His  mother's  heart 

Thus  to  see  her  son — her  Jesus- 
Crucified  upon  the  tree; 

Pure  and  gentle,  sinl<  ss-  groaning 
In  the  depths  of  agony. 

Thus  to  see  the  huge  nails  diiven 
In  His  guileless  feet  and  hands, 

And  to  hear  the  heartless  jeering 

Of  the  throng  that  round  Him  stands.. 

Thus  to  hear  Him,  dying,  pleading, 
(While  the  blood  sweat  doth  bedew 

Every  pore  upon  His  bocly,) 

"  For  they  know  not  what  they  do." 

Thus  to  see  them  pierce  Him,  hanging 
Lifeless,  drooping  from  the  cross — 

Spilling  blood,  unsullied,  holy, 
From  His  side,  as  'twere  but  dross. 

Sinner,  'twas  for  thee  that  Mary 
And  her  Jesus  felt  each  smart, 

And  their  throes  of  pain  and  anguish 
Should  subdue  thy  wayward  heart. 


184 

'Twas  to  gain  thy  sins  a  pardon 
That  the  Son  of  God  came,  down 

From  His  home  of  bliss,  to  suffer 
And  obtain  for  thee  a  crown  ; 

Not  of  "  platted  thorns,"  to  pierce  thee, 
But  a  crown  of  glory  bright ; 

Not  a  "  purple  robe,"  to  mock  thee, 
But  an  angel-robe  of  white ; 

Not  to  smite  and  bind  and  scourge  thee 
Then  thy  hapless  state  deride ; 

But  to  cleanse  thee  from  pollution, 
Bled  His  hands  and  feet  and  side. 

Mother,  bending  o'er  the  death- couch, 
While  thy  grief-wrung  heart  beats  wild, 

Think  of  Mary  at  Mount  Calv'ry, 
Bowed  before  her  dying  child. 

Not  upon  an  easy  pillow, 

Or  upon  a  downy  bed, 
But  long  hours  upon  the  gibbet, 

Drooped  our  Saviour's  weary  head. 

Mother,  when  thy  heart  would  murmur, 
Saying  not,  "  Thy  will  be  done," 

Turn  thine  eyes  to  Calv'ry's  mountain, 
Think  of  Mary  and  her  Son. 


185 


OUR  BABE. 

Angel  bands  are  flitting  near  us, 
Hark  !  the  rustle  of  the  wing ; 

Oftentimes  they  come  to  cheer  us, 
And  in  heavenly  accents  sing. 

Nearer,  nearer,  then  retreating, 
Farther  dies  the  sound  away  ; 

Then  again  we  feel  the  pinion 
Softly  round  our  tresses  play. 

With  the  angels,  bright  and  shining, 
Comes  a  little  birdling-dove, 

And  we  hear  her  sweetly  hymning, 
Hymning  of  her  nest  above. 

Little  strains,  so  soft  and  soothing, 
Lisps  the  angel  birdling  near; 

Tones  so  winning,  tones  so  wooing — 
'Tis  our  darling  one  we  hear. 

Ah  !  we  knew  our  pretty  birdling 
Would  with  angels  come  again; 

And  we  knew  she  would  be  hymning 
In  our  ear  a  silver  strain. 

And  we  knew  her  little  pinion, 
Softer  than  a  wing  of  down, 

Would  be  flitting,  near  us  flitting, 
'Neath  her  little  golden  crown. 


186 

I  have  felt  its  gentle  brushing 
On  my  sorrow-moistened  cheek, 

And  it  dried  the  fountain  gushing 
With  the  grief  I  could  not  speak. 

Pretty  little  heavenly  nestling  ! 

Angels  guard  our  birdling  dove; 
For  I  hear  their  kind  caressing, 

And  their  lullaby s  of  love. 

And  I  see  with  spirit  vision 

Where  they  lay  my  babe  to  rest, 

Folded  in  the  wings  of  angels — 
Cradled  on  an  angel's  breast. 

Thou  art  blessed,  sweetest  birdling, 
Sin  can  never  mar  thy  lot ; 

Thou  art  now  the  Saviour's  nursling, 
And  thy  mother  clasps  thee  not. 

But  she  hears  thy  gentle  cooing, 
And  she  feels  thy  little  wings, 

And  she  knows  that  thou  art  wooing, 
Wooing  her  from  earthly  things. 


187 


THE  DYING  MOTHER;  OR,  ALMA'S  FLOOD. 


"  My  mother,  did  you  call  ?"     "  I  did,  my  dear- 
Come,  love,  and  sit  beside  thy  mother  here  ; 
I  have  somewhat  to  say  before  I  die — 
Hush,  darling,  do  not  o'er  thy  mother  cry. 
Sit  close  ;  in  thy  warm  hand  take  mine,  'tis  chill ; 
My  daughter,  weep  not  at  thy  Father's  will. 
Though  thou  art  young,  in  patience  lesrn  to  bear 
Thy  early  grief — kind  Father,  hear  my  prayer ; 
Temper  to  my  shorn  lamb  the  winds  in  love, 
And  guide  her  here,  till  we  shall  meet  above. 
My  child,  far,  far  away  from  Alma's  flood, 
Whose  waves  are  red  and  swollen  with  the  blood 
Of  human  beings,  comes  a  wailing  c:y, 
Though  faintly  in  its  wake  comes  victory. 
A  Christian  nation,  for  religious  rights, 
Against  a  sister  Christian  nation  fights. 
Not  such  a  precept  taught  by  Christians'  God, 
To  thus  surcharge  the  waters,  drench  the  sod. 
There,  by  that  stream,  thy  father  sleeps  to-night — 
Love,  move  the  lamp,  its  bright  rays  dim  my  sight — 
Or  if  he  sleeps  i:i  death — some  water,  child, 
My  throat  is  dry,  my  pulse  is  throbbing  wilcj. 
There,  that  will  do  ;  but  if  thy  father's  gone, 
Thou  wilt  indeed  be  friendless,  darling  one. 
Father,  again,  oh,  heed  a  mother's  prayer, 
Keep  Thou  my  darling  in  Thy  fost'ring  care. 
My  love,  the  room  is  dark  ;  take  back  the  lamp- 
I  cannot  feel  thy  hand — wipe  off  this  damp, 
It  chills  my  brow — I  faint,  I  gasp  for  breath  ; 
Quick,  raise  the  sash — O  God  !  can  this  be  death  ?" 
That  very  hour  from  far-off  Alma's  flood 
The  father,  too,  ascended  to  his  God. 


188 


THE  WOODS. 

'Tis  mine  to  range  the  grand  old  woods, 
While  gently  blows  the  rustling  breeze, 

And  pluck  the  wild-flower  and  the  fruit, 
And  list  the  music  of  the  leaves. 

'Tis  mine  in  sultry  summer's  heat 

To  muse  within  the  shadowy  glade — 

There  sit  for  hours  in  pensive  mood, 
Till  twilight  skies  begin  to  fade. 

'Tis  there  in  morning  time  I  turn 

My  steps  to  hear  melodious  lays ; 
Each  tree  is  vocal  then  with  birds, 

Which,  warbling,  hymn  their  Maker's  praise. 

And  oh,  'tis  in  that  temple  grand, 
Of  God's  own  handiwork,  I  kneel, 

And  pray  to  the  Eternal  One 

To  cleanse  my  heart,  its  wounds  to  heal. 

I  feel  Him  nearer  to  my  soul, 

Where  naught  but  nature's  works  are  near; 
There  loving  angels  wait  to  waft 

The  prayer,  and  wipe  away  the  tear. 


189 


A  LITTLE  PIECE  OF  PROSE. 


My  pen  ie  destined  still  to  write  of  tjie  depa  ted, 

To  cheer,  well  as  I  may,  the  grieving,  stricken-hearted. 


Eelative  to  Mercy  Elizabeth,  infant  daughter  of  Wm.  and  E.  8 . 


Oh,  what  a  tender  tie  now  binds  our  souls  to  heaven  I 
We  sec  our  darling  there.  Sweet  little  cherub,  how  her 
bright  wings  shine  !  How  radiant  that  Httle  face  with 
bliss  1  Angels  have  decked  her.  Round  her  fair  young 
brow  is  twined  a  wreath  of  never-fading  flowers,  fresh 
gathered  for  our  angel-child  in  heaven's  fair,  perennial 
bowers.  And  see  that  dainty  robe  of  spotless  white,  in 
shining  folds  so  crystal  clear,  falling  around  the  little 
seraph  form  in  which  her  sinless  soul  is  clad.  She 
blooms  in  beauty  r  ow,  too  beautiful  for  mortal  eyes  to 
scan.  And  see  that  little,  smiling  band  of  countless 
cherubs  round  her  wait,  waving  bright  palms  and  sing- 
ing sweetest  songs  of  gladdest  welcome  to  the  new-flown 
lamb  !  Behold  how  carefully  her  Saviour  takes  and 
c'asps  our  precious  one  within  his  arms !  How  innocent 
she  nestles  there,  as  rests  her  downy  cheek  on  Jesus' 
breast !  How  trustingly  her  bright  eyes  gaze  upon  the 
countenance  divine  of  Him  who  saith,  while  yet  on  eaith, 
of  such  pure  innocents  His  holy  kingdom  did  consist. 
And  see  what  love  He  doth  on  her  be-tow  !  More  than 
a  mother's  love  is  His.  More  than  a  father's  care  she  now 
shall  know.  Passing  description  is  His  kindness  shown. 
How  priceless,  too,  the  lessons  of  true  wisdom  He  to  her 


190 

shall  teach !  E'en  now,  could  she  return,  earth's  wise 
ones  might  of  her  a  lesson  learn.  Then  should  we  not 
rejoice  that  she,  our  darling  one,  has  gone,  though  the 
doth  all  so  closely  cling  in  twining  tendrils  round  our 
loving  hearts.  Is  it  not  sin  to  drop  o'er  her  a  tear  ? 
Jesus,  to  Thee  in  meekness  let  us  bow,  and  kiss  the  chas- 
tening rod  with  which  thou  didst,  in  thine  unerring  wis- 
dom, smite  our  sinful,  earth-bound  hearts. 


191 


THE  RAINBOW. 


"Mamma,"  said  a  little  girl-of  two  years,  f;s  she  came 
running  in  from  the  garden,  after  the  cessation  of  a  fine 
April  shower,  with  eyes  big  and  shining  like  two  bril- 
liants— "Mamma,  dpre  be  great  wibbon  in  de  sky  ;  come, 
mamma,  see  ;  'tis  such  pitty."  I  fol  owed  my  little  one, 
as  she  desired,  and,  true  enough,  a  beautiful  4(  ribbon  " 
spanned  the  heavens.  The  wee  thing  had  never  before 
seen  the  glorious  "  bow  of  promise,"  and  in  her  child's 
head  she  compared  it  to  things  she  had  seen. 

And  so,  thought  I,  is  it  with  us  children  of  larger 
growth.  Our  ideas  of  heavenly  things  are  but  a  reflec- 
tion in  our  minds  of  the  beautiful  things  of  earth. 


POETRY— WHAT  IS  IT  ? 

And  what  is  poetry  ?  Is  it  but  rhythmic  verse  and  jin- 
gling sounds,  unhallowed  by  a  holy  touch,  accessible  to 
all? 

And  what  is  poetry  ?  Come  forth,  my  muse,  and  tell. 
Is  it  the  golden  spring  from  the  Invisible  which  opens 
egress  to  the  soul,  that  it  may  pour  forth  utterance  in 
deep,  harmonious  strains  that  will  enchant  the  ear  while 
it  gives  vent  to  unpent  longings  for  the  spiritual  of  the 
vast  Unknown  ?  Is  it  the  dialect  in  which  the  angels 
converse  hold,  and  chart  sweet  praises  as  they  bow 
around  the  throne  of  Him  the  "  Great  I  Am  ?"  Is  it  the 
language  Eve  addressed  to  Adam,  father  of  the  human 
race,  ere  yet  by  sin  they  fell  ?  Or  is  it  but  the  plaint 
from  the  poor  love-sick  heart  of  disappointed  maid  or 
swain  ?  Or  is't  the  siren's  witching  voice  of  love,  pol- 
luted love,  as  man  doth  oft  declare  ?  Oh,  shameless  man. 
Or  is  it  something  indescribable,  so  precious  and  so  rare 
that  few  obtain  the  glittering  gem,  more  famed  than  is 
Golconda's  shore,  more  prized  than  Eastern  diadem  ? 
And  what  is  poetry?  Who  shall  to  me  make  known  ? 
Where  is  it  found  ?  Is  it  obtained  from  musty  books 
and  college  halls;  from  rocky  steep,  or  woody  glen? 
Or  from  the  water's  brink,  or  flowery  mead  ?  Come  forth, 
my  muse;  direct  me  to  the  spot;  give  me  the  key  that 
doth  unlock  the  hidden  mystery.  Where  shall  I  search, 
oh,  whither  turn  to  find  ?  Cometh  it  down  in  twilight's 
hush,  or  in  the  moon's  pale  beam  ?  Or  is  it  wafted  in  the 
perfumed  gale  ?  Tell  me,  oh  ye,  its  votaries.  Where  is 
it  found,  and  where  may  I  obtain  ?  I've  sought  it  long, 
and  sought  in  vain  ;  it  shuns  and  'scapes  my  grasp. 


193 


WHEN  THE  SOUL. 

When  the  soul  is  worn  and  weary, 
Drooping  low  with  broken  wing, 

Turn  the  eyes  to  sad  Mount  Calvary : 
Look  on  Christ  the  sorrowing. 

See  Him  in  His  throes  of  anguish! 

Suffering  more  than  man  can  feel; 
That  thou,  sinner,  might  not  languish, 

For  He  died  thy  wounds  to  heaL 

Mourner,  is  thy  "burden  heavy  ? 

Does  thick  darkness  round  thee  bide, 
Turn  thine  eyes  to  Jesus,  dying  : 

Look  on  Him  the  crucified. 

He  will  bear  thy  weight  of  sorrow, 

He  will  lighten  every  care. 
Bright  thy  sky  will  shine  to-morrow, 

If  thou  bow'st  to-day  in  prayer. 

He  can  raise  thy  fainting  spirit, 

Groping  in  a  starless  night, 
And  on  Faith's  white  pinions  waft  it 

Till  it  basks  in  Heaven's  pure  light. 


194 


THE  WORD  "MOTHER.' 


How  sweet  is  the  sound  of  the  simple  word  "  mother," 
When  lisped  by  the  lips  of  the  child  of  our  heart! 

Oh,  breathe,  if  you  can,  in  the  ear  such  another 
That  to  woman's  warm  bosom  like  joy  will  impart. 

With  thrilling  delight  I  drink  in  the  soft  cooings 
Of  a  dear  little  dove  nestled  close  to  my  breast, 

And  when  it  essays,  in  its  infantine  wooings, 
To  utter  that  namey  was  e'er  mortal  more  blest! 

Oh,  when  years  have  vanished,  and  life  has  grown  older, 
And  the  circlet  of  womanhood  rests  on  her  brow, 

To  a  fond,  noble  bosom  may  a  loved  one  enfold  her, 
And  she  list  to  "  mother  "  as  I  listen  now. 


HAVE  WE  FLOWERS  ? 


Have  we  flowers  ?  fair  lady  ;  oh,  yes  ;  we  have  flowers, 

That  we  rear  with  the  tenderest  care; 
We  would  not  exchange  them  for  all  your  gay  bowers, 

Blooming  fresh  with  the  choice  and  the  rare. 

We  have  two  little  sunny-sweets,  fair  as  the  morning 

That  wakens  the  blossoms  of  Spring, 
With  loveliest  beauty  our  cottage  adorning, 

While  round,  sweet  soul-fragrance  they  fling. 


195 

Oh,  yes,  we  have  flowers  that  we  lovingly  cherish, 
More  prized  than  the  gems  of  the  mine; 

We  train,  we  watch  over,  and  tenderly  nourish, 
These  immortals,  these  ilowrets  divine. 

Oh,  yes,  we  have  flowers,  two  bright,  rosy  blossoms, 

That  bloom  by  our  own  cottage  hearth; 
And  we  clasp  them,  in  happiness,  close  to  our  bosoms. 

Giving  thanks  for  their  being  on  earth. 

Oh,  yes,  we  have  flowers,  two  sweet  little  creatures, 

Perennials  that  spring  to  our  arms; 

They  have    eyes  bright  as  dew-drops  and  love-tinted 
features; 

Naught  else  hath  for  us  half  their  charms. 

Our  flowers  ne'er  will  perish,  though  the  vases  that  hold 
them 

May  fall  into  dust  in  the  tomb, 
For  then  our  dear  Jesus  to  His  bosom  will  fold  them — 

Eternal  our  blossoms  shall  bloom. 


IS  THERE  NOT  ROOM? 

Is  there  not  room  for  me,  too,  Lord, 
Before  Thy  throne  to  stand, 

And  sing  a  song  and  wave  a  palm 
Amid  the  angel  band  ? 

May  not  I  bask  within  the  beams 

Thy  glory  sheds  around, 
All  cleansed  from  my  pollution,  Lord, 

And  in  Thy  grace  abound  ? 


196 

Let  my  soul  soar  on  wings  of  faith, 
Enrobed  in  righteousness, 

Till  it  is  closely  folded  in 
Thy  loving  blessedness. 


LOYE. 

Awake,  my  soul,  to  joyous  strains, 
No  more  let  sorrow's  plaint  be  heard; 

Earth  is  all  fair  and  beautiful, 

"When  love  the  soul's  deep  fount  has  stirred. 

And  love  has  found  its  way  within 
This  heart  of  mine,  erst  sad  and  lone, 

And,  oh,  how  bright  all  things  appear, 

Which  seemed  so  dim  ere  love's  light  shone. 

Love  is  the  guerdon  God  has  given 
To  those  who,  patient,  walk  the  road, 

Mantled  in  faith  and  charity, 
That  leads  up  to  His  blest  abode. 

Then  evermore,  my  soul,  o'erflow 
With  love  that  emanates  from  heaven, 

And  clearer  will  my  pathway  glow, 
Till  rest  is  to  my  footsteps  given. 


197 


MY  LOVE'S  RETURN;    OR,  MY  LOVE  SONG. 

The  sun  shines  again  through  the  cloud, 
For  my  Love  smiles  upon  me  once  more, 

And  the  heart  that  of  late  was  low  bowed, 
On  pinions  ecstatic  doth  soar. 

The  sun  shines  again  through  the  cloud, 
And  the  pearl-drops  of  joy  fill  mx  eyes; 

Nature  now  hath  put  off  its  dark  shroud, 
And  laughs  in  the  light  of  the  skies. 

When  the  light  of  love  shines  in  the  heart, 
Dark  shades  from  our  path  flee  away; 

On  life's  stage  we  no  more  walk  our  part, 
But  skip,  like  young  lambkins  at  play. 

^v 

The  sun  shines  again  through  the  cloud, 

My  lover  no  more  looks  askance; 
And  my  heart  that  lay  chilled  in  its  shroud 

Is  aglow  with  the  thrill  of  love's  glance. 

The  words  now  his  loving  lips  speak 
Are  sweeter  than  dewdrops  to  flowers, 

And  the  breath  of  his  kiss  on  my  cheek 
Is  like  perfume  from  Eden's  fair  bowers. 

His  melody  fills  all  the  air, 

Over  mountain  and  valley  it  floats; 
No  tones  with  my  Love's  can  compare, 

As  he  trilleth  his  musical  notes. 

The  sun  shines  again  through  the  cloud, 
Nature  joins  in  the  voice  of  my  mirth; 


198 


When  the  soul  with  love's  light  is  endowed, 
A  roseate  hue  gilds  the  earth. 

Do  you  wish  my  Love's  name,  friend,  to  know? 

If  I  tell  will  you  give  me  your  hand? 
He  groaned  on  the  cross  years  ago, 

But  reigns  now  in  the  Beautiful  Land. 


LET  THE  LITTLE  STAR  SHINE. 

+  

Let  the  little  star  shine; 

Its  light  may  be  sweet, 
To  somebody  straying 

With  bruised,  bleeding  feet. 
It  may  be  to  some  poor  heart, 

Dearer  by  far, 
Than  the  clear,  twinkling  light, 

Of  the  large,  brilliant  star. 

Let  the  little  star  shine, 

Dear  Lord,  though  't  is  small; 
Let  no  cloudlet  come  o'er  it, 

Its  faint  beams  to  pall. 
Its  soft,  silvery  ray 

May  light  to  its  goal 
Some  longing,  and  fainting, 

And  earth-wearied  soul. 

Let  my  feeble  pen  write, 
Dear  Lord,  though  't  is  weak; 

A  thought  or  a  feeling 
It  aids  me  to  speak, 

May  be  to  some  lone  one, 
As  sweet  as  the  light 


199 

Of  the  dear  little  star 
That  I  gaze  on  to-night. 

Let  my  feeble  pen  write; 

Though  of  "  talents  "  but  "  o 
Thou  hast  given  me,  Lord, 

Let  my  work  be  well  done; 
If  wisely  I  use  it, 

Some  good  it  may  do, 
To  some  poor  soul  wandering 

Life's  wilderness  through. 

I  fain  would  prove  faithful, 

Be  the  "  trust "  e'er  so  small; 
I  care  not  to  hide  it, 

Though  it  pleaseth  not  all. 
Some  weak,  simple  soul, 

Near  akin  to  my  own, 
Good  harvest  may  reap 

From  the  seed  I  have  sown. 

Oh,  the  weak,  simple  soul 

Is  of  just  as  much  worth 
As  the  proudest  and  wisest 

And  greatest  of  earth: 
"  Inasmuch  as  ye  Ve  done  it, 

To  one  of  these  ye," 
Dear  Lord,  thou  hast  said, 

"Have  done  it  to  me." 

Let  the  little  star  shine, 

Though  away  and  afar, 
And  smallest  mid  thousands, 

It  may  be  the  star 
That  shall  guide  one  to  port, 

On  life's  ocean- waves  driven; 
It  may  be  the  star 

That  shall  lead  one  to  Heaven. 


200 


THE   SICK  CHILD. 

Poor  little  suff'rer,  keen  is  tliy  distress, 
Fain  would  thy  mother  bear  for  thee  thy  pain. 

Father  above,  our  every  effort  bless 

To  bring  our  dear  one  back  to  health  again. 

The  rosebud  lips,  to  us  now  doubly  sweet, 
Are  parched  and  dry,  and  scalding  is  her  breath; 

The  tender  flesh  is  scorched  with  fever  heat 

Dear  Father  !  save  our  cherub  child  from  death. 

Bid  cooling  draughts  allay  her  burning  thirst, 
And  bathing  check  the  pulse's  rapid  throb ; 

Those  swollen  veins  above  her  brow  must  burst; 
Oh,  let  not  Death  us  of  our  fondling  rob! 

She  is  the  darling  of  our  little  band, 

Our  precious  lamb,  for  whom  our  prayers  arise; 
Stretch  forth,  dear  Father  !  Thy  all-healing  hand, 

And  bless  once  more  with  joy  our  weeping  eyes! 


My  babe  looks  up a  smile  illumes  her  face, 

The  burning  glow  has  left  her  fevered  cheek. . . . 

To  Thee,  kind  Father,  we  this  blessing  trace; 
Our  depth  of  gratitude  no  words  can  speak. 


201 
OUR  HOUSEHOLD  LAMBS. 


Our  household  lambs  are  rich, 

For  God  is  very  kind! 
He's  given  to  each  a  gift  worth  more 

Than  all  earth's  wealth  combined — 
A  thinking,  joyous  soul, 

Shining  through  love-lit  eyes; 
More  sweetly  beaming  than  the  worlds 

That  light  the  evening  skies. 

We  parents,  too,  are  rich; 

These  lambkins  in  our  fold 
Earth's  richest  monarch  could  not  buy, 

Nor  wealth  of  worlds  untold. 
These  jewels  that  are  ours, 

We  hope  will  shine  on  high, 
When  sun,  and  moon,  and  stars,  no  more 

Hang  in  the  vaulted  sky. 


OUR   YOUNGEST   CHERUB. 


We  Ve  a  bright  little  cherub,  with  wings  not  yet  grown, 
Who  pats  round  with  tiny  feet — she  is  our  own. 
Hands  fat  and  chubby,  cheeks  dimpled  and  chin; 
Fairer  than  any  flower  earth's  vale  within. 
Flossy  curls,  golden-hued,  circling  the  brow, 
In  its  sweet  purity,  white  as  the  snow; 
Eyes  blue  as  sapphire,  outsparkling  the  same! 
Nectar-dewed  lips  that  the  ruby's  red  shame! — 
The  prattle  of  which  is  like  music  from  Heaven. 
Oh,  will  she  e'er  from  our  fond  arms  be  riven  ? 
Our  sunbeam,  our  birdling,  our  precious,  our  own — 
We  know  from  our  hearts  thou  canst  never  be  flown. 


202 


A  BABY  RHYME.    OUR  SUNBEAM. 

A  little  "morning  sunbeam  "  bright, 

She  shines  within  our  nest; 
As  prattling  every  morn  she  springs 

From  her  sweet  cradle-rest. 

"I  love  you,  mamma — let  me  kiss — 

Papa  and  sister,  too; 
And  little  *  Birdie ' but  I  can't— 

But,  Birdie,  I  love  you. 

"  So  I  will  say,  good  morning,  sir; 

And  put  a  lump  that's  sweet, 
Between  the  bars  for  dearie  bird, 

To  peck  at  and  to  eat. 

"  See  '  Prinny '  wag  his  tail  !  mamma; 

I  love  my  '  doggy,'  too; 
Just  see  him  lick  my  face  !  I  guess 

He  loves  me,  too,  don't  you  ? 

"  I  love  poor  pussy,  too;  I  love 

To  stroke  her  soft  fur  skin, 
And  hear  her  hum  and  purr  so  nice — 

Please,  may  I  let  her  in  ? 

"  I  love  the  pretty  skies  and  flowers, 

And  all  the  birds  that  sing, 
And  the  green  grass,  and  God  who  made 

The  earth  and  everything." 


203 

Tkus  always  prattling  as  she  springs 
From  her  sweet  cradle-rest, 

Our  little  "morning  sunbeam"  shines 
Within  our  little  nest. 

And  all  the  day  with  winning  words, 
And  happy  heart  and  light, 

And  pleasant  eye,  she  seems  to  us 
A  streak  of  sunshine  bright. 

And  when  at  eve  she  sinks  to  rest, 

Like  starlight  in  a  flower, 
She  smiles  a  little  heavenly  ray 

Within  our  little  bower. 


THE  CHILD-DREAM. 

It  chanced  to  me  to  overhear  the  words  I  now  may  tell, 
Of  childish  faith  and  innocence  that  from  the  sweet  lips 

fell, 
Of  a  little  girl,  scarce  five  years  old,  sitting  on  papa's 

knee, 

Gazing  into  his  loving  eyes  earnest  and  tenderly: 
"  Mamma  is  gone  to  Heaven,  you  said,  where  there's  no 

grief  nor  pain,        9 
But  don't  she  want  to  see  us  there  ?  can  she  come  back 

again? 
The  days  are  very  lonely  here,   and  when  't  is  dark  at 

night, 

I  wish  that  I  might  wake  in  Heaven  before  'tis  morning- 
light; 
For  there  mamma  would  speak  to  me  when  I'm  afraid 

and  weep, 
And  fold  me  closely  in  her  arms  till  I  should  go  to  sleep. 


204 

And,  O  papa,  last  night  I  thought,  when  I'd  been  long  in 

bed, 
That    dear    mamma  came  back  and  bathed  my  little, 

aching  head, 

And  asked  of  you  to  let  her  take  me  to  her  happy  home  ! 
'T  was  for  her  little  girl,  she  said,  that  God  had  bid  her 

come. 
But  you  were  loth  to  let  me  go,  and  begged  that  I  might 

stay; 
Till  mamma  caught  me  in  her  arms  and  bore  me  far 

away, 

Where  there  are  lovely  birds  and  flowers  and  many  pret- 
ty things, 
And  angels  like  my  dear  mamma,  with  bright  and  downy 

wings, 

And  music  sweet  as  any  song  my  mamma  used  to  sing, 
Before  she  slept  so   very   sound  that  morning  in   the 

spring — 
But,  dear  papa,  what  makes  you  cry?  it  was  a  dream, 

may  be  ? 

For  here  your  little  girl  is  now,  sitting  upon  your  knee. 
I'll  kiss  those  sorry  tears  away. . .  .1  think  I  would  not  go, 
If  dear  mamma  diould  come  for  me,  I  know  you'd  miss 

me  so."    * 

Thus  prattled  in  her  father's  arms,  a  fair-haired,  bright- 
eyed  child; 
And  looked  up  sweetly  in  his  face  with  loving  eyes,  and 

smiled. 

But  when  the  sun  again  looked  o'er  the  little  eastern  hill, 
Her  eyes  were  rayless,  and  her  form  lay  waxen,  cold, 

and  still. 


205 


ANOTHER  BABY  RHYME. 


"  Call  me  '  Darling-blessed,' 

Call  me  *  Lamb,'  and  *  Love-bird,'  too; 
Call  me  everything  that's  pretty; 

Call  me  'pet  names,'  mamma,  do; 

"  Kiss  your  little  Darling-blessed, 
Fold  your  *  Lamby  '  to  your  breast, 

Softly  pat  your  little  Love-bird  ; 
Make  my  little  heart  be  blest." 

Thus,  our  little  "  Chubby  "  pleadeth, 
Pressing  kisses  on  my  cheeks, 

On  my  lips,  and  eyes,  and  forehead, 
Between  every  word  she  speaks. 

Oh,  what  loving,  sweet-lipped  kisses! 

Innocent  and  pure  as  heaven! 
And  what  gentle,  fond  caresses, 

By  our  "  Baby-bird  "  are  given! 


MAMMA,  IS  IT  JESUS   SMILING  ?" 

Mamma,  is  it  Jesus  smiling, 
Makes  the  Summer-time  so  bright  ? 

Oh,  my  little  heart  beats  happy, 
When  the  pretty  world's  so  bright! 


206 

But  when  it  is  dark  and  cloudy, 
And  the  rain  comes  from  the  skies, 

Then  is  Jesus  very  sorry  ? 
Does  the  rain  come  from  His  eyes  ? 

And,  dear  mamma,  when  the  thunders 

In  the  black  sky  roll  along, 
Then  is  Jesus  very  angry, 

Because  I've  done  something  wrong  ? 

Does  he  surely  see,  dear  mamma, 
Every  thought  that  is  not  right  ? 

Can  he  look  into  my  bosom, 
When  it's  very  dark  at  night  ? 

Oh,  I'm  sure  I'll  try,  and  never 
Think  a  naughty  thought  again; 

For  I  love  the  pleasant  sunshine, 
Better  than  dark  clouds  and  rain. 


THE  CHILD'S  WISH  TO  PRAY 


'T  was  a  dark  and  rainy  evening, 
And  the  wind  was  moaning  wild, 

While  anear  a  bright  fire  sitting 
Were  I  and  our  darling  child. 

"  Dear  mamma,"  she  sweetly  asked  me, 
Looking  up  with  earnest  eye  ; 

"  May  I  kneel  and  thank  '  our  Father ' 
For  this  home  so  warm  and  dry  ? 

"  May  I  tell  Him,  too,  I  thank  Him 
That  I'm  no  poor  orphan  child? 


207 

« 

Do  you  think  that  He  can  hear  me 
Through  the  rain  and  wind  so  wild?" 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  "  and  will  love  tliee 

For  thy  thankful  little  heart  ; 
Ever  be  thus  truly  grateful, 

Choosing,  '  Sweet,'  the  '  better  part.' 

"And  remember,  too,  when  kneeling, 

To  entreat  our  Father  kind 
For  all  homeless,  friendless  children, 

Shelterless  from  rain  and  wind; 

"  Who,  in  poverty  and  sorrow, 
Through  grim  want,  so  poor  and  pale, 

Tread  a  thorny,  weary  pathway, 
Where  temptations  oft  prevail. 

"Ask  Him,  from  His  bounteous  storehouse, 

To  supply  each  needy  one; 
Kindly  feeding,  shelt'ring,  guiding — 

Ending  with  *  Thy  will  be  done.'  " 

Then  our  darling  knelt  beside  me, 
With  hands  folded  on  my  knee, 

Raising  her  blue  eyes  to  heaven, 
A  sweet  bud  of  piety. 


I    SAT,    ETC. 


I  sat  me  down  weeping 
Beside  a  small  mound, 

Where  my  baby  lay  sleeping, 
Low  hid  in  the  ground; 


208 

For  I  missed  the  soft  lovelight 
Of  lier  star-beaming  eye, 

And  I  thought  I  would  gladly 
Lie  down,  too,  and  die; 

And  be  laid  by  the  sweet  one 
That  slumbered  so  still, 

In  the  moonlighted  churchyard 
On  side  of  the  hill. 


A  CHILD'S  PRAYER. 


How  beautiful  the  morn,  serene  and  bright; 
Dear  Lord,  how  good  to  guard  us  through  the  night 
From  evil  prowler,  angry  storm  and  fire, 
From  sorrow's  wakeful  plaint  and  sickness  dire! 

Dear  Lord,  how  loving  must  Thou  be  to  keep 
Watch  over  us  while  we  are  lost  in  sleep! 
How  sweetly  kind  is  Thy  forgiving  power, 
To  shield  our  heads  in  such  a  helpless  hour! 

And  when,  dear  Lord,  we  take  our  final  rest, 
And  our  frail  forms  lie  deep  in  earth's  cold  breast, 
Withdraw  not,  then,  Thy  loving,  guardian  hand, 
But  lead  us  safely  up  to  "  Fatherland." 


A  BEGGAR'S  PETITION  ;    OR,  KIND  WORDS. 


Kind  words!  oh,  more  than  gold  are  they;  they  thrill 

Through  my  poor  heart; 
They  touch,  so  tenderly,  my  eyelids  fill — 

For  tears  will  start. 

When  such  for  me  vibrate  within  mine  ear, 

They  leave  a  spot — 
A  blessed  little  sunny  spot  to  cheer 

My  hapless  lot. 

Kind  words,  they  say,  are  plenty  and  are  cheap, 

But  not  for  me; 
Nothing  's  so  plenty  as  the  tears  I  weep 

Through  beggary. 

I  meet  the  rich  and  crave  a  trifling  boon; 

With  angry  face, 
Harsh  words  and  cruel,  in  a  cutting  tone, 

They  give  in  place. 

Kind  words,  my  friends,  oh,  give  the  needy  some! 

'T  will  do  them  good; 
'T  will  make  less  cheerless  the  hard  path  they  roam, 

Crying  for  food. 


210 


CORNELIA. 


Sweet,  only  sister,  fare  her  well. 

Consumption  seized  upon  her  frame—- 
Our sister  wasted,  day  by  day 

Drooped  like  a  lily,  from  its  stem 
Borne  by  the  blast  away. 

So  her  frail  body  perished  here; 

But  from  its  precious  dust  arose 
A  being  bright  and  beautiful, 

In  Eden's  blest  repose. 

And  thus  the  fairest  flower  that  bloomed 
Upon  our  stricken  household  tree, 

By  its  Creator's  hand  was  plucked, 
To  grace  eternity. 


211 


OUR  DARLINGS. 

"We  had  a  little  visitor, 

A  pretty,  fairy  thing — 
She  came  to  us  one  morning 

Just  at  the  close  of  spring ; 
Oh,  she  was  such  a  darling, 

The  little,  wee,  wee  thing. 

She  had  the  roundest,  brightest,  eyes, 

Of  just  the  sweetest  blue  ; 
Her  lips  were  like  fresh  rosebads 

Her  skin  carnation  hue. 
She  was  the  plumpest,  prettiest  babe 

I'm  sure  I  ever  knew. 

But  this  young  tiny  creature 
Was  not  the  first  sweet  bird 

That  had  visited  our  household 
And  our  depths  of  love  had  stirred, 

For  just  about  six  years  before, 
A  like  wee  voice  was  heard. 

Oh,  such  a  perfect  picture 

Of  innocent  delight 
Was  now  our  six-year  birdling, 

She  danced  from  morn  till  night 
Around  the  little  lump  of  love, 

Dressed  in  its  robe  of  white. 

And  as  our  nestling  flourished, 
And  grew  from  day  to  day, 


212 

The  elder  sister  birdling 

Scarce  from  her  side  would  stray, 
Not  even  with  her  former  mates 

To  spend  a  time  in  play. 

But  she  would  sit  beside  her, 

And  each  fair  feature  trace, 
Or  hold  her  on  her  little  lap, 

In  fondest,  close  embrace, 
And  thinking  her  so  beautiful, 

Resolved  to  call  her  Grace, 

Thus  lovingly  she  tended 

The  pretty,  winsome  thing, 
Till  she  began  unfolding, 

As  'twere,  her  little  wing, 
And  tottered  timidly  about 

When  came  the  early  spring. 

Nor  ceased  her  tender  care  e'en  then, 

For  closely  by  its  side 
In  all  its  fragile  wanderings 

She  strayed  a  patient  guide, 
Lest  something  evil  might  befall 

Her  darling  pet  and  pride. 

Oh,  'twas  a  very  pleasant  sight 

To  see  that  loving  child, 
Scarce  out  of  babyhood  herself, 

So  patient,  tender,  mild, 
In  all  her  daily  watchings 

Over  our  infant  child. 

And  then  when  first  its  tiny  lips 

Essayed  to  lisp  a  word, 
Her  glad  eyes  sparkling  danced  with  joy, 

And  gleesome  voice  was  heard. 


213 

"  Oh,  never  on  this  earth,"  she  said, 
*'  Was  such  another  bird." 

Which  care  the  little  nursling 

Did  seemingly  requite, 
Throwing  her  arras  round  sister's  neck, 

The  loving  little  wight, 
Pressing  warm  lips  upon  her  cheek, 

With  honied  dew  bedight. 

Thus  "  Nellie  "  watched  our  "  Grade," 

And_in  her  joyous  pride 
W«  uld  prattle  of  her  budding  charms, 

Which  daily  she  espied  ; 
No;  ever  lagged  her  loving  care, 

Whatever  did  betide. 

Till  suddenly  our  Father, 

When  spring  came  round  once  more, 
Recalled  our  youngest  birdling 

To  the  celestial  shore, 
And  she  was  hidden  from  our  view 

On  earth  forevermore. 

Oh,  then  the  change  'twas  piteous 
That  o'er  our  "  Nellie  "  caine  ; 

She,  in  her  bitter  sorrow, 
No  more  appeared  the  same; 

But  moped  about  in  silent  grief 
That  wore  away  her  frame. 

And  few,  too  few,  the  golden  days 

Ere  borne  by  angel  bands, 
Another  precious  darling 

Entered  the  unknown  lands  ; 
And  there,  methinks,  are  happy  clasped 

Our  cherub  babies1  hands. 


214 


LINES. 


Sorrow's  Music  Strains. 


Oh,  would  you  stiike  a  thrilling  chord, 
Whose  music  strains  should  pierce  the  soul, 

Play  on  the  quiv'ring  heart-strings  where 
Sorrow  awhile  hath  held  control. 

Aye,  let  the  poet's  magic  wand 

But  touch  the  bruised  and  bleeding  lyre, 
And  sweeter  melodies  shall  rise 

Than  all  the  joys  of  earth  inspire. 

For  when  the  soul  is  sorest  tried, 

The  o'erstrained  heart-strings  almost  riven, 
Will  not  earth's  purest  notes  ascend 

And  plaintive  vibrate  nearer  heaven  ? 

God  doth  not  purposeless  afflict 
The  children  of  his  loving  care  ; 

But  wrings  with  grief  the  bosom's  core, 
To  gain  a  fitter  dwelling  there. 

To  buoy  the  soul  on  wings  of  faith, 
And  raise  its  best  aspirings  higher  ; 

To  wait  its  sweetest  incense  forth, 
He  probes  the  heart  with  sword  of  fire. 

Then,  poet,  would  you  strike  a  chord 
Whose  notes  should  penetrate  the  soul, 

Play  on  the  quiv'ring  heart-strings  where 
Sorrow  awhi'e  hath  held  control. 


215 


"SHE  IS  NOT  DEAD,  BUT  SLEEPETH." 


"  She  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth," 
Though  thou,  lo!;e  mother  weepeth 

Above  her  head ; 
Her  body,  fast  decaying, 
Keeps  not  the  spirit  staying 

In  earth's  cold  bed. 

"  She  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth," 
Though  Death,  the  reaper,  reapeth 

The  lov'd  forms  here  ; 
Her  soul,  unscathed,  adoring 
Its  Maker,  now  is  soaring 

Where  falls  no  tear. 

"She  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth," 
Though  the  sky  vigil  keepeth 

Above  her  breast ; 

She  has  passed  o'er  death's  dark  river 
To  the  bosom  of  her  Giver, 

There  sweet  her  rest. 

"  She  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth," 
Though  now  the  zephyr  sweepeth 

Around  her  bed ; 

Thine  eyes  ere  long  shall  greet  her, 
For  in  heaven  thou  shalt  meet  her, 

When  life  has  fled. 

Thy  child  hath  upward  risen, 
She  has  burst  her  clayey  prison  — 

Thy  faith  gird  on  ; 
"  She  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth," 
For  Christ,  the  Saviour,  keepeth 

The  spirit  gone. 


216 


THE  DYING  PAUPER  CHILD'S  ADIEU. 

It  is  growing  dark,  dear  sister, 

But  I  know  it  is  not  night, 
For  I  see  the  sun  go  upward, 

Arid  the  clouds  of  pearly  white  ; 
But  the  light  around  is  fading, 

And  my  limbs  are  growing  cold, 
And  I  hear  the  Savior  calling, 

"  Little  lamb,  come  to  my  fold  !" 

Do  not  weep  for  me,  dear  sister, 

I  am  very  glad  to  go 
Where  no  hunger-pain  is  gnawing, 

And  no  shiv'ring  winds  do  blow. 
Up  in  Heaven,  they  say,  "there's  plenty, 

No  poor  children  dwell  up  there, 
And  that  Jesus  loves  the  orphan," 

And  I  know  He's  heard  my  prayer; 

For  the  other  day  I  begged  him, 

When  we'd  nothing  left  to  eat, 
And  the  people  did  not  heed  us 

When  we  asked  for  bread  or  meat — 
Then  I  begged  that  He  would  take  me 

To  His  Home  up  in  the  sky; 
And  I'm  going  now,  dear  sister, 

And  you'll  come,  too,  by-and-by. 

You  will  come,  for  when  I  see  Him, 

I  will  tell  our  Savior  dear 
Of  our  cold  and  of  our  hunger, 


217 

And  of  every  bitter  tear; 
He'll  pity  you,  dear  sister, 

You'll  not  have  long  to  stay; 
I'll  ask  dear  Lord  to  call  you  soon, 

He'll  hear,  tJiere,  when  I  pray. 

And  then  when  we  have  entered, 

We'll  search  that  Happy  Land 
Until  we  find  our  mother, 

For  she's  mid  the  angel  band; 
I'm  sure  that  I  shall  know  her 

By  her  eye  so  mild  and  blue, 
And  her  hair  so  soft  and  shining, 

And  she  looks  so  much  like  you. 

And  I'm  sure  that  she  will  know  us, 

For  when  she  was  going  away 
She  laid  her  thin  hands  on  our  heads, 

That  on  her  bosom  lay; 
And  said  she  would  watch  over  us, 

If  Christ  would  let  her  come, 
Till  she  should  meet  her  children 

Up  in  her  other  Home. 

And  father,  too,  he  may  be  there, 

For  mother  used  to  pray, 
"  That  God  would  turn  his  erring  steps, 

Nor  cast  his  soul  away." 
And,  while  upon  his  dying  bed, 

I  heard  him  cry  to  Heaven, 
"  To  grant,  if  it  were  possible, 

His  sins  to  be  forgiven." 

And  there,  too,  we  shall  see  her — 
Sweet  "  Baby-bird  "  that  died; 

For  when  I  fell  asleep,  last  night, 
Within  a  palace  wide, 

And  prettier  than  you  can  think, 


218 

A  thousand  children  played, 
And  "  Baby  "  there  looked  very  sweet, 
In  shining  robes  arrayed. 

Then  do  not  weep,  dear  sister, 

You'll  not  have  long  to  stay; 
I'll  ask  dear  Lord  to  call  you  soon, 

He'll  hear,  ilicre,  when  I  pray; 
And  when  you  come,  those  golden  streets 

We'll  happy,  happy  roam. . . . 
Hark!    Mother  calls  her  little  boy. . . . 

Good-by!    I'm  going  Home. 

—1858. 


I  have  thought  best  to  change  a  part  of  two  stanzas  in  this  piece,  for 
they  have  apparently  been  purloined  from  me,  and  are  quite  common  in 
some  of  the  "  songs  of  the  day  "  for  the  children.  It  was  written  eigh- 
teen or  twenty  years  ago  f  or  The  American  Union,  Boston.  "Are  the 
Stars  the  Eyes  of  Angels?"  was  printed  in  a  New  York  city  paper  sev- 
eral months  after  I  had  it  inserted  in  Grace  Greenwood's  Little  Pilgrim, 
and  another  name  attached  to  it.  I  wrote  to  the  publisher  at  the  time  that 
it  was  purloined,  but  he  paid  no  regard  to  me,  supposing  the  piece  was 
not  worth  the  trouble,  I  presume. 


319 


TO  MY  BROWN-EYED  ONE. 


Darling,  those  dark-brown  eyes  of  thine 

Are  beautiful  to  me, 
I  prophesy  thought  in  their  depths, 

And  poet  minstrelsy. 

Wo  crime  slinll  e'er  pollute  thy  hand, 

No  taint  ot  meanness  stain 
Thy  noble  heart — upon  thy  brow 

Sweet  chastity  shall  reign. 

And  charity  and  love  shall  blend 
To  make  thec  Christian  here ; 

Within  those  windows  of  thy  soul 
I  read  thy  mission  clear. 

Those  lustrous  star-beams  light  the  page 

Whereon  we  read  thy  life — 
A  child  obedient,  trusty  friend, 

A  Christian,  honored  wife. 


220 


A  LETTER  TO  MARGARET  VERNE, 

A  contributor  to  the  "  American  Union."    Published  in  Boston,  1859. 


Please  tc  tell  me,  "  Maggie  Verne" — 

For  I  do  sc  wish  to  learn 

Just  precisely  all  about  yon, 

Since  earth's  stars  were  less  wi  hout  you — 

Is  your  figure  tall  and  graceful, 

Or  petite,  yet  neat  and  tasteful  ? 

Is  your  skin  of  lilicd  whiteness — 

Eyes  of  dark,  or  azure  brightness  ? 

Are  your  lips  like  ro-es  budded — 

Chin  and  cheeks  with  d  mples  studded  ? 

Have  jou  golden  hair  or  jetty  ? 

Are  you  plain  or  arc  you  pretty  t 

Tell  me,  Maggie,  Maggie  Verne, 

For  I  so  much  wish  to  learn. 

Please  to  tell  me,  Maggie  Verne—- 
For I  do  so  wish  to  learn — 
Are  you  young,  or,  growing  older 
Do  your  pulses  throb  the  colder  ? 
Are  your  skies  with  pleasure  glowing- 
Fortune's  rich  gifts  round  you  flowing  ? 
Does  your  heart  enfold  another, 
Dearer  than  a  friend  or  brother  ? 
Or  if  maiden,  or  if  married, 
Have  health's  blessings  round  you  tarri  d  ? 
Are  your  manners  mild  or  queenly — 
On  your  brow  sits  fame  serenely  ? 
Tell  me,  Maggie,  Maggie  Verne, 
For  I  so  much  wish  to  learn. 


221 


Please  to  tell  me,  Maggie  Verne— 

For  I  do  so  wish  to  learn — 

Which  or  earth  or  heaven  seems  nearest— 

To  your  soul  M  hich  clings  the  dearest  2 

Do  bright  angels'  soft  wings  fan  you, 

And  their  love-arms  gently  span  you  ? 

Do  earth's  love-beams  dance  around  you, 

Till  their  halo  quite  confounds  you  2 

Doubly  blest  in  mind  and  graces, 

Has  care  left  on  you  no  traces  ? 

Have  life's  roujrh  winds  ne'er  blown  o'er  you, 

Strewing  hopes  like  leaves  before  you  ? 

Tell  me,  darling  Maggie  Verne, 

For  I  so  much  wish  to  learn. 


Maggie's  answer  to  my  questions  has  been  lost,  not  by  myself,  but 
by  the  carelessness  of  another.  I  intended  to  insert  it  directly  following 
the  above  letter,  because  it  was  so  very  beautiful,  and  because  it  seemed 
appropriate  so  to  do,  before  I  recorded  my  reply. 


A  RESPONSE  TO  MARGARET  VERNE. 

Dear,  delightful,  lovely  starling, 
All  things  bless  thes,  Maggie  darling, 
For  thy  words  such  music  ringing ; 
Oh,  methought  'twas  some  one  singing 
Who  had  strayed  from  skies  above  me — 
Some  one  who  I  thought  did  love  rnc, 
And  would  fain  my  soul  waft  lightly 
To  the  stars  that  shme  so  brightly — 
To  the  heaven  smiling  o'er  us — 
To  the  friends  who've  gone  before  us. 
Sure,  some  angel  standing  near  thee 
Moved  thy  pencil,  Maggie  dearie, 
To  the  music-strain  you  sung, 
Though  a  part  were  sorrow- wrung. 

Dear,  melodious  warbler,  charming 
All  my  being,  sweetly  warming 
Every  vein  ;  with  rapture  thrilling 
Every  heart-string ;  dew  distilling 
From  my  eyes,  my  eyelids  filling  ; 
Scarcely  dared  I  hope  you'd  deem  me— 
Since  my  words  were  so  unseemly — 
Worthy  of  your  least  attention, 
Though  I'd  dared  your  name  to  mention 
In  our  prized  and  model  "  Union," 
Wishing  I  might  hold  communion 
With  a  gentle  sister-spirit, 
Whose  heart  beats  the  Loves  inherit ; 
And  to  thank  you  now  I  write  you, 
Hoping  thus  far  to  requite  you 
For  your  kindly,  beauteous  favor, 
Which  so  much  of  love  did  savor. 


223 

"With  my  thanks,  I  pray  you,  please 

Accept  the  heart  of  plain  Louise ; 

'Tis  a  heart  somewhat  like  thine, 

Thinks  all  beauty  is  divine  — 

Is  in  goodness  a  believer, 

Firm  in  friendship,  non-deceiver  ; 

'Tis  a  heart  that's  joyed  and  sorrowed, 

Warms  to  love,  yet  oft  been  harrowed 

By  the  cold,  unfeeling  crowd — 

Often  bled  when  death's  pale  shroud 

Closely  folded  some  departed 

Friend,  and  left  me  broken-hearted — 

Mother,  brothers,  sister  dearest — 

This  it  is  makes  heaven  nearest, 

All  my  musings  upward  turning, 

All  my  bosom  skyward  yearning, 

Groping  in  the  gloaming  shadow 

Till  my  feet  shall  press  Life's  meadow. 

But  a  truce,  the  while,  to  sadness, 

Turn  thee,  pen,  again  to  gladness. 

Well,  dear  Maggie,  by  the  blue 

That's  above  us,  I  with  you 

Wish  that  you  were  married,  madam, 

To  some  noble  son  of  Adam  ; 

And  in  time  that  cherub  love-ties, 

Prattling  sweet,  might  peep  with  dove-eyes 

Into  yours  all-thankful,  smiling, 

For  the  precious,  care-beguiling 

Charmers,  whose  soft  arms  and  faces 

Nestle  'mid  your  bosom's  graces. 

Now  good-by,  melodious  starling, 

Though  I  wish  your  music,  darling, 

In  my  ears  vibrated  ever, 

Till  the  Fates  my  li'e's  thread  sever. 

In  joy  and  sorrow,  your  most  truly 

Ever-faithful,  loving  Lulie. 


224 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  COQUETTE. 


Her  jeweled  fingers  touch  the  keys  so  lightly, 
While  from  her  ruby  lips  come  words  so  sprightly; 
Or,  as  her  sparkling  eye  to  you  she  raises 
As,  airy,  floats  she  in  the  dance's  mazes — 
You  almost  deem  her  come  from  fairy  dell, 
A  fairy  queen,  she  knows  to  charm  so  well. 

Her  skin  so  fair,  her  cheeks  so  tinged  with  roses, 
While  o'er  her  polished  brow  soft  hair  reposes, 
Her  form  so  sylph-like!    Perfect,  every  feature; 
Manners  so  naivete,  the  lovely  creature; 
You  wonder  if  she  is  of  mortal  mold, 
Or  has  escaped  from  some  angelic  fold! 

But  should  you  chance  to  spy  her  in  the  morning, 
Ere  she  has  donned  her  outward  fair  adorning, 
Ere  pearl-white  teeth  are  set  within  their  places, 
And  the  lalsc  raven  hair  her  forehead  graces, 
You'd  deem  you  looked  upon  some  haggard  being, 
That  e'en  with  paint  could  scarce  be  worth  the  sec- 
ing; 

And  wonder  if  the  metamorphosed  elf, 
So  graceless  seeming,  really  knew  herself  ! 

APPLICATION. 

Then,  noble  sex,  that  never  dost  dissemble, 
Of  leautifnl  coquettes  beware  and  tremble; 
For  ever  since  fair  Eve  did  eat  the  apple, 
You've  found  it  hard  with  woman's  wits  to  grapple. 
And  as  a  friend  has  given  you  fair  warning 
That  sometimes  "  belles"  appear  in  false  adorning, 
If  e'er  your  true  hearts  are  by  them  deceived, 
She  feels  her  hands  of  all  the  guilt  relieved. 


225 


TO  THE  "LOUNGER"  OF  HARPER'S  WEEKLY. 


I  wish  I  were  a  little  bird 

That  could  face  wild  wintry  weather, 

I  know  where  I  would  fly  just  now 
And  wait  and  watch  together. 

I'd  fly  with  all  my  little  might 

Straight  off  to  your  great  city, 
And  light  upon  your  window-sill 

And  sing  my  sweetest  ditty. 

And  then  when  you  should  look  around 

To  spy  the  saucy  stranger, 
I'd  take  a  sly  peep  in  your  face — 

This  prying  little  ranger. 

And  when  I'd  looked  about  enough, 

Back  to  my  forest  dwelling 
I'd  fly;  and  to  my  woodland  mates 

Such  tales  as  I'd  be  telling!* 

Feb.,  1858. 

*  I  had  not  seen  New  York  when  I  wrote  this,  and  did  wish  for 
wings  to  go  there. 


226 


A  WISH. 

For  Mr.  "Lounger,"  of  "Harper's  Weekly.  ' 

Heaven  bless  thee,  dear  Lounger  ! 

Preserve  thy  kind  heart — 
May  love-buds  blooming  round  thee 

Sweet  fragrance  impart. 
May  bright  birds  singing  near  thee, 

With  magic  control, 
Cheat  time  of  the  wrinkles 

It  would  print  on  thy  soul. 

And  when  the  worn  casket 

That  has  lock-bound  thee  here. 
Lies  broken  and  shattered, 

May  bright  angels  be  near, 
Blooming  fairer  than  flowers, 

Singing  sweeter  notes  still 
Than  the  loveliest  songsters 

Of  earth  ever  trill. 

Heaven  bless  thee,  dear  Lounger  ! 

May'st  thou  stay  with  us  long, 
And  oft  listen  kindly 

To  the  would-be  bird's  song  ; 
And  if  Harper  or  no  now, 

May  thy  harp  by  and  by 
Swell  the  anthems  of  glory 

That  roll  through  the  sky. 


FRIENDSHIP. 


How  soothing  to  grief  and  how  oft  a  relief 

Is  sweet  sympathy's  token — 

The  word  kindly  spoken — 

Oh,  'tis  heaven  to  know  we  have  true  friends  below, 
Who  would  fain  ease  our  burdens  and  soothe  every  woe 

When  thy  innermost  heart  has  been  pierced  by  the  dart 
Of  soul-sinking  sorrow. 
With  no  hope-beaming  morrow, 

Hast  thou  ne'er  felt  the  worth  of  that  blessing  of  earth, 
The  sweet-savored  blossom  to  which  friendship  gives 
birth  ? 

Blest  Friendship  and  Love,  ye  come  down  from  above, 

Joy-tastes  to  us  giving 

Of  the  purified  living — 

By  both  rich  and  poor  sought,  yet  too  pure  to  be  bought, 
To  the  warm-hearted  being  life  without  you  were  naught. 

Oh,  'tis  heaven  to  know  we've  a  friend  here  below 
Who  would  'suage  to-day  sorrow, 
And  with  bliss  gild  to-morrow  ; 
But  alas  many  learn  'tis  in  vain  that  they  yearn 
For  so  priceless  a  Loon,  save  to  Jesus  they  turn. 


228 


THEY  THIKK  ME  COLD. 

They  think  me  "  cold  ";  ah,  me,  they  little  know 

The  wellings  of  affection  in  ray  heart; 
How,  often,  they  their  confines  overflow, 

Though  curbed  with  all  the  force  life  doth  impart. 

They  think  me  "  cold";  ah,  me,  they  little  ween 
The  fires  of  love  that  burn  within  my  breast; 

With  proud  reserve  these  fires  from  view  I  screen, 
Though  rob  they  my  whole  being  of  its  rest. 

They  think  me  "cold";  ah,  none  with  skillful  hand, 
And  chords  responsive  in  his  bosom  strung, 

Plays  on  my  quiv'ring  heartstrings — no  sweet  wand 
Hath  love's  deep  echoes  from  my  bosom  wrung. 

Yet  love  burns  all  aglow  there,  though  well  masked 
By  all  my  strength  of  reason  and  of  art; 

Oh,  would  you  have  me  yield  my  love  unasked! 
More  dearly  do  I  prize  this  yearning  heart. 

They  think  me  "  cold";  they  do  misjudge  so  much; 

They  cannot  read  me,  since  I'm  unlike  them; 
The  herd  around  me  never  felt  a  touch 

Of  the  warm  heart-throbs  which' I  scarce  can  stem. 

They  think  me  "  cold  ";    they  whose  loves  arc  to  mine 
Like  frozen  raindrops  to  the  summer  shower; 

The  reaching  tendrils  of  my  heart  would  twine 
Gladly  around  some  loving,  sheltering  power. 


CHARLEY  FLINN. 


Heir  to  his  grandsire's  spacious  farm, 

Within  a  "stone  front,"  brown, 
There  dwelleth  handsome  Charley  Flinn, 

The  smartest  lad  in  town. 
His  manly  brow  is  broad  and  high, 

His  hair  as  black  as  jet ; 
And  then  he's  such  a  pleasant  look, 

One  cannot  soon  forget. 

The  girls  around  their  eyes  would  give, 

(To  him)  if  they  could  win 
.The  tender  tones  and  loving  smiles 

Of  handsome  Charley  Flinn. 
They  say  his  heart  is  cold  as  ice 

And  harder  than  a  stone; 
They  really  fear  a  bachelor 

He'll  live  and  die  alone. 

But  little  "  Nell "  could  tell  a  tale 

They  wouldn't  like  to  hear: 
Some  morning  in  the  month  of  June — 

(Oh,  are  n't  it  very  queer) 
That  he  should  choose  me  for  his  wife, 

(Plain  little  Nelly  Stiles), 
When  there  is  queenly  "  Polly  Ann," 

With  her  bewitching  wiles! 

Now  Charley  Flinn,  without  his  shoes, 

Is  over  six  feet  tall, 
And  when  I  hang  upon  his  arm 

I  feel  so  very  small! 


230 

But  since  I'm  seventeen  to-day, 

My  gaiter  boots  within 
This  lump  of  "  four-feet-ten  "  will  make 

A  stately  Mrs.  Flinn. 

Mamma  pretends  to  think  't  is  strange 

The  choice  that  some  men  make; 
But,  on  the  whole,  I  rather  think 

They  know  who  's  best  to  take. 
Charles  says  he'd  rather  have  a  wife 

Can  perch  upon  his  knee, 
Than  forty  such  great,  bouncing  girls 

As  "Polly  Anna"  Lee. 

Poor  Polly  Ann,  I  pity  her, 

And  have  my  secret  fears, 
'T  will  break  her  heart  to  lose  tliatfarm — 

The  cherished  hope  of  years. 
And  then  to  miss  of  Charley,  too, 

The  dearest  man  alive; 
But  who,  pray  tell,  could  want  a  wife 

As  old  as  twenty-five/" 


231 


"  JULIET." 

Do  ye  mourn  for  her  yet  ? 

Years  have  now  passed  away 
Since  your  eyes  rested  on  her, 

The  beautiful  clay  ! 
Since  the  star  of  your  household- 

The  bird  of  your  nest — 
Lay  drooping  and  fading, 

And  sinking  to  rest. 

Do  you  mourn  for  her  yet  ? 

In  the  deep  hush  of  night 
Comes  she  now  in  your  dreams 

Like  a  star  to  your  sight  ? 
And  with  tones  still  so  dear 

Does  she,  long  laid  to  sleep, 
Glad  your  hearts  sad  and  lone, 

Till  you  waken  to  weep  ? 

Do  ye  mourn  for  her  yet  ? 

Oh,  how  oft  have  I  thought 
Of  the  dark,  lustrous  eyes, 

"With  the  love-light  inwrought- 
Of  the  fair,  smiling  face, 

And  the  sweet,  bird  like  voice, 
That  in  years  long  agone 

Made  your  household  rejoice. 

Sweet  spirit  of  beauty  ! 
Like  a  bird  on  the  wing 


232 

Thou  fiutteredst  round  us 
In  thy  fresh,  early  spring  ; 

But  alas  !  in  thy  earth -home 
The  bird-star  went  down, 

And  the  Holiest  seized  thee 
For  a  gem  in  His  crown. 


233 


OUR  COTTAGE. 

Very  pleasant  looks  our  cottage, 

In  the  meadow  by  the  rill, 
While  the  summer  sun  is  setting 

Slow  behind  the  western  hill. 

• 

Emma  goes  to  milk  old  brindle 

Grazing  by  the  open  door ; 
While  sweet  Anna  makes  the  supper, 

For  her  day's  work  spinning's  o'er. 

Mother  calls  the  smaller  children 
From  their  frolic  on  the  grass — 

Quick  they  run  to  wash  their  faces 
In  the  wavelets  as  they  pass. 

Then  with  hands  all  clean  and  chubby, 
Eating  bread  and  milk  they  sit 

On  the  freshly-scoured  door-step, 
Their  young  eyes  with  pleasure  lit. 

Father  now  is  coming  homeward 

From  his  labor  in  the  field  ; 
But  he  stops  him  at  ihe  well-curb, 

To  the  oaken  bucket  wield, 

Which,  c^ear-dripping  from  the  fountain, 
He  the  cooling  draught  surveys, 

And  with  grateful  heart  and  humble, 
Glad  his  burning  thirst  allays. 


Then  he  sits  him* at  his  table, 
Laden  with  a  housewife's  care, 

And  in  meekness  asks  a  blessing, 
Ere  he  tastes  the  frugal  fare. 

And  when  supper  time  is  over, 
And  has  set  the  summer  sun, 

Then  the  farmer  and  his  household 
Rest  them  from  their  labors  done. 

And  the  quiet  cottage,  watched  o'er 
By  the  angels  from  above, 

Charms  the  gazer  in  the  moonlight, 
For  'tis  guarded  round  by  love. 


KINDLY  WORDS, 


Patter,  patter  on  the  roof 

Falls  the  gentle  rain ; 
Patter,  patter  on  the  ground, 

And  on  the  window-pane. 

Such  gentle  rain-drops  deeper  sink 

Into  the  thirsty  earth  ; 
So  gently,  gently  drop  reproof, 

'Twill  prove  of  greater  worth. 

Harsh  words  rebound,  nor  penetrate 

Into  the  wayward  heart ; 
But  kind  rebuke,  in  kindly  tone, 

Will  rouse  the  better  part. 

So  gentle  words,  in  counsels  wise, 

Will  well  repay  the  toil, 
As  summer's  gentle  showers  refresh 

The  hot  and  thirsty  soil. 


236 


LOVE  AND  THE  MAIDEN. 

By  a  sunny,  rippling  river, 
Cupid  strayed  with  bow  and  quiver, 
Gazing  at  a  little  maiden 
With  her  bosom  flower-laden. 

Like  a  gleesome  fairy  tripping, 
Sweet  as  blossoms  she  was  nipping, 
Happy  as  a  bee  in  clover, 
She  spied  not  the  wily  rover. 

But  when  Cupid,  by  the  river, 
Shot  the  arrow  from  his  quiver, 
Coy  and  blushing  stooped  the  maiden, 
With  her  flutt'ring  heart  love-laden. 

Vain  she  tried  t'  extract  the  arrow — 
Helpless  as  a  little  sparrow — 
From  her  wounded,  timid  heart, 
But  the  more  she  felt  the  smart. 

Then  beware  ! — by  life's  fair  river 
Cupid  strays  with  bow  and  quiver — 
Lest  thy  bosom,  happy  maiden, 
Be,  too,  with  love's  arrow  laden. 


237 


ETTY  VALE. 


Found  dead  upon  her  mother's  grave. 


Oh,  Etty  Vale,  sweet  Etty  Vale, 
The  burning  tears  rny  eyelids  lave, 

When  memory  brings  thee,  cold  and  pale, 
In  death  upon  thy  mother's  grave. 

To  think  that  no  one  near  thee  bent 
To  press  with  loving  lips  thy  cheek  ; 

To  feel  thy  soul  unhee  led  went, 
Kone  near  a  kindly  word  to  speak. 

To  know  the  slanderous  tongue  of  man 
Had  caused  to  shorten  thus  thy  days, 

And  see  the  wretch  without  a  ban, 
Who  virtue's  self  in  spite  betrays, 

Still  fawned  upon  and  nattered  by 

The  very  sex  he  so  defames ; 
Oh,  'tis  enough  to  drench  the  eye 

And  scorch  the  heart  with  anger-flames. 

Oh,  Etty  Vale,  sweet  Etty  Vale, 
The  day  will  come  when  thou  wilt  be 

Avenged,  for  Christ  has  heard  thy  tale 
Of  wrong — and  j  ust  is  Deity. 


238 


DRESS. 

That  lady-folks  love  dress  men  say — 

I  say  men  love  it  dearest ; 
And  if  you^ll  let  me,  in  my  way 

I'll  prove  my  case  the  clearest. 

Pray,  for  whose  eye  do  ladies  dress 

In  jewels,  silks  and  laces  ? 
Now,  men,  be  honest,  and  confess 

'Tis  for  your  lordly  graces. 

And  why  do  men  don  plain  attire, 
If  not  to  please  fair  woman  ? 

For  well  they  know  that  we  admiro 
The  noble,  plain-clad  human. 

Pray  what  observer  has  not  seen 
That  flounced  and  jeweled  maiden 

Is  mostly  worshiped  by  the  men  ? 
With  their  love-glances  laden  ? 

And  he  who  notices  will  mark 

The  beauty,  gaudy  seeming, 
Will  oftener  choose  the  plain-clad  sp-ark, 

Whose  eye  with  truth  is  beaming. 

Now,  gentlemen,  be  it  confest, 
I've  proved  my  case  most  clearly  ; 

You  love  the  dress-y  sex  the  best — 
We  love  the  plain  most  dearly. 


239 


THE  DEPARTED  MOTHER. 


I  am  lonely,  lonely,  lonely, 

For  the  loved  one  is  not  here ; . 

And  I  weep,  but  weeping  never 
Will  recall  my  mother  dear. 

Oh,  my  friends,  who  ne'er  have  listened 
For  a  mother's  voice  in  vain, 

Can  ye  blame  me  if  I  miss  her 
Whom  I  ne'er  shall  see  again  ? 

Little  know  ye  who  ne'er  felt  it 
Of  the  anguish  in  my  heart ; 

Clouds  take  now  the  place  of  sunshine, 
Hot  tears  from  my  eyes  will  start. 

Motherless  !  how  can  I  pay  it  ? 

Motherless  !  take  back  the  woid, 
Twine  thine  arms  around  me,  mother  ; 

Let  thy  loving  voice  be  heard. 

Mother  !  mother  I  list — no  answer — 
Must  I  see  her  face  no  more; 

No  more  clasp  the  hand  that  led  me 
Till  my  saddened  life  is  o'er? 

No  more  wait  the  coming  footsteps 
Of  the  form  I  loved  so  well ; 

No  more  hear  her  words  of  counsel  ? 
Oh,  let  not  my  soul  rebel. 


240 

But,  dear,  sainted,  best  of  mothers, 
Oftentimes,  in  spirit,  come; 

With  thy  spirit-arms  entwine  us, 
Till  at  last  we  meet  at  Home. 


Written  as  a  simple  offering  of  affection  to  the  bereaved  daughters  of 
our  f rieud  Rev.  Mr.  Treadway. 


THE  LOST  SHEEP. 


Who  knows  but  this  world  is  the  hundredth  sheep, 
Of  worlds  upon  worlds  through  the  endless  sweep, 
That  has  gone  astray  from  the  Father's  Fold, 
Lost  in  the  fogs  as  her  centuries  rolled! 

The  hundredth  sheep !   so  "  tlie  ninety  and  nine  " 

He  left  in  the  care  of  His  shepherds  divine, 

And,  with  loving  heart  bleeding,  down  the  thorny  path 

came, 
This  sheep  wand'ring  lone  with  His  blood  to  reclaim. 


Oh,  the  world  is  full  of  beauty, 
When  the  heart  is  full  of  love, 

But  when  swell  the  fiercer  passions 
Sadly  flees  the  stricken  dove. 


241' 
KITTY  LE  GRAVE. 

Over  the  meadow  and  over  the  hill 

And  over  the  river  there  stands  a  mill, 

And  Geoffrey,  the  miller,  is  handsome  and  brave, 

And  I  know  'mong  the  lassies  the  one  he  would  crave, 

To  'tend  to  his  cottage  and  wait  at  his  door, 

To  welcome  his  coming  when  his  day's  work  is  o'er; 

But  though  he  is  handsome  and  though  he  is  brave, 

He'll  sue  yet  awhile  for  young  Kitty  Le  Grave. 

* 

Over  the  river  and  over  the  hill 

And  over  the  meadow  he  comes  from  the  mill, 

In  his  "  Sunday -best "  drest,  two  evenings  each  week, 

And  I  know  by  his  eyes  't  is  of  love  he  would  speak; 

But  I'll  laugh  at  his  wooing  and  keep  him  "  at  bay  " 

Till 't  is  no  longer  safe  with  his  feelings  to  play; 

For  though  he  is  handsome  and  though  he  is  brave, 

He  shall  sue  yet  awhile  for  young  Kitty  Le  Grave. 

Over  the  meadow  and  over  the  hill 
And  over  the  river  my  heart 's  in  the  mill 
"Where  Geoffrey  is  grinding  six  days  out  of  seven, 
But  he  shan't  find  it  out  when  he  comes  here  at  even; 
For  I'll  laugh  at  his  wooings  and  keep  him  "  at  bay," 
Till 't  is  no  longer  safe  with  his  feelings  to  play; 
For  though  he  is  handsome  and  though  he  is  brave, 
She  shall  not  seem  won  lightly,  young  Kitty  Le  Grave. 

Over  the  meadow  and  over  the  hill 

And  over  the  river,  net  far  from  the  mill, 

Stands  a  neat  little  cottage,  so  white  and  so  new, 

That  Geoffrey  has  built  for  his  Lady-love  true. 

But  the  harder  the  winning,  more  valued  when  won, 

And  I  would  be  prized  when  his  wooing  is  done; 

For  though  he  is  handsome  and  though  he  is  brave, 

His  cottage  must  wait  for  young  Kitty  Le  Grave. 


IN  A  LITTLE  COTTAGE  ;    OR,  DOUBTING. 

In  a  little  cottage,  near  a  little  rill, 

Is  a- little  maiden,  sitting  very  still; 

For  she's  deeply  thinking  of  the  little  word, 

Said  to  Kitty  Comely,  she  had  overheard, 

As  she  passed  the  hedge-row  near  the  garden  gate, 

Home,  last  eve,  returning,  lone  and  rather  late. 

"  Was  he  quite  in  earnest,  did  he  mean  it  true, 

That  she  was  the  dearest  girl  he  ever  knew  ? 

Did  I  hear  it  rightly,  't  was  his  heart's  desire, 

She  should  be  his  wife,  instead  of  little  Letty  Hyre  ?" 

Thus  she  sits  a  thinking  till  the  moon  is  set, 

And  sleepy  stars  are  blinking,  with  her  eyelids  wet. 

Pretty  little  Letty,  fair  as  any  flower, 

Go  rest  your  little  golden  head,  't  is  near  the  morning 

hour; 

Let  no  more  a  thought  of  him  becloud  your  sunny  brow, 
He's  not  worth  a  single  tear  from  such  a  one  as  thou; 
The  roses  on  your  cheeks,  the  glintings  in  your  hair 
Are  gins  will   catch   a  better  "fish"  than  Elverton  St. 

Clair. 


QUESTION  AND  ANSWER. 


HE. 

You're  tired  of  the  dancing,  Kate; 

Come  in  the  garden  walk  ; 
With  none  to  listen  but  the  flowers, 

We'll  have  a  little  talk. 

I  gave  my  heart  so  long  ago 

Entirely  to  thee ; 
I  dare  to  ask  a  fair  return — 

Wilt  thou  give  thine  to  me  ? 

Just  say  me  one  short  word,  fair  girl, 

While  no  one  is  about, 
One  easy,  sweet,  consenting  word, 

Three  letters  spell  it  out. 

Your  lips  are  silent,  dear — is't  then 

To  say  so  hard  a  thing  ? 
May  1  not  on  your  finger  place 

This  little  pearl-drop  ring  ? 

SHE. 

Bold  sir  !  a  word  of  letters  two 

Is  quite  as  easy  spoken  ; 
But  since  'tis  you,  dear  Will,  I'll  wear 

ID  pledge  of  troth  the  token. 


244 

THE  SWAN. 


JSuggested  by  seeing  the  beautiful  Swans  in  Central  Park,  paid  to  have- 
been  brought  from  England.] 


Bird  of  the  snowy  plume  !  fairy-like  creature! 

Daintily  cleaving  this  miniature  lake, 
Graceful  in  motion  and  graceful  in  feature, 

Light  on  the  wave  as  the  snow's  tiny  flake, 

Often  I've  read  of  thy  plaintive  song-singing, 
Sweeter  than  woman's  when  sweetest  i.nd  best — 

Sing  me  a  bar  while  the  lakelet  thou'rt  skimming, 
Or  when  thy  white  wings  on  the  bright  waters  rest. 

Bird  of  the  snowy  plume  !  come  here  a  stranger, 
Away  from  thy  kindred  far  over  the  sea., 

Thy  heart  must  turn  homeward,  thou  dear  little  ranger 
Sing  of  thy  home,  then,  wherever  it  be. 

I  wait  me — I  listen — no  song  is' forth  coming, 
No  musical  trills  from  the  fairy-like  throat; 

The  birds  of  the  air  their  sweet  strains  are  humming — 
From  the  bird  of  the  waters  no  notelet's  afloat. 

Is  it  a  fable,  then  ?     Sings  the  swan  never  ? 

Or  with  her  last  breath  comes  the  plaintive  refrain  ? 
Or  here  for  her  native  home  sighing  forever, 

Dies  in  her  bosom  the  musical  strain  ? 

Bird  of  the  snowy  plume  !  here  let  thy  home  be ; 

We'll  cherish  and  love  thee — from  danger  will  save; 
With  thy  dear,  pretty  nestling-brood  merrily  roam  free 

On  this  sweet  silver  lake  as  on  Albion's  wave. 


245 


THE  VISION. 


Once  upon  a  moonlit  even, 
Like  to  those  of  ancient  Eden, 
As  I  sat  with  heart  overflowing, 
Thankful  for  the  beauties  glowing 

On  that  sublunary  night, 
Heard  I  something  humming,  humming, 
On  the  stilly  moonbeams  corning, 
Floating  to  me  lower,  nearer, 
Ever  sounding  sweeter,  clearer, 

Till  I  saw  a  form  alight. 

'Twas  more  beauteous  than  a  fairy, 
Bright  and  shining,  yet  so  airy 
That  I  knew  it  was  not  mortal, 
Standing  in  my  chamber  portal 

Standing  in  the  open  door ; 
But  methought  it  was  a  spirifr 
From  the  land  the  good  inherit, 
From  our  Father-land  above  us, 
Where  have  gone  the  friends  who  love  us, 

There  to  dwell  forevermore. 

And  I  mutely  sat  and  listened, 
And  my  eyes  enraptured  glistened, 
And  with  soul  entranced,  confounded, 
Every  pulse  within  me  bounded 

At  the  fair,  unearthly  scene  ; 
And  my  heart's  ecstatic  beating, 
Sounding  like  great  waters  meeting, 
As  I  viewed  the  glorious  vision 
That  had  come  from  fields  eiysian, 

From  it3  ken  I  failed  to  screen. 


246 

Then  outspoke  the  fairy  creature, 
Sweetly  beaming  every  feature, 
Lips  with  heaven's  dew  a-dripping, 
As  the  silver  tones  came  slipping 

From  the  pearly  portals  twain — 
Spoke  she,  and  all  ceased  her  singing, 
Though  her  voice,  like  soft  bells  ringing, 
Lost  for  me  no  sound  enchanted, 
But  my  heart  throbbed,  no  more  daunted, 

As  she  spoke  in  mortal  strain  : 

"  Fear  me  not,  on  heavenly  mission 
Come  I  from  the  land  elysian, 
Where  joy  ceases  never,  never, 
But  where  those  we  love  live  ever, 

Come  I  from  that  happy  shore; 
Come  I  with  my  Father's  message, 
'Tis  for  thee  a  blissful  presage 
Of  thy  doom  when  life  has  left  thee, 
When  death  of  thy  form  hath  reft  theef 

That  thy  soul  may  freely  soar. 

*'  This  the  message  that  He  sent  theef 
'Tis  a  heavenly  nepenthe, 
Coming  only  from,  high  heaven, 
To  God's  children  freely  given, 

To  the  souls  who  Him  adore  ; 
Those  who  in  His  works  behold  Him, 
And  in  grateful  hearts  enfold  him, 
Shall  surcease  for  them  each  sorrow, 
Brighter  beaming  every  morrow." 

This  she  said  and  nothing  more. 

Then  she  waved  her  downy  pinions, 
And  she  fled  from  earth's  dominions 


247 

Like  a  meteor-flash,  far  shining, 
Till  she  passed  the  mooulit  lining 

Of  the  starry  dome  on  high  ; 
And  I  started  as  from  dreaming 
Of  a  something  more  than  seeming, 
Though  I  found  no  sign  nor  vestige 
Of  the  beauteous,  heavenly  prestige 

That  I  lost  beyond  the  sky. 

But  I  do  believe  a  vision 
Came  to  me  from  realms  elysiany 
For  I  know  it  was  not  mortal, 
Standing  in  my  chamber  portal, 

Standing  in  the  open  door  ; 
And  I  know  I  was  not  dreaming, 
For  'twas  something  more  than  seeming, 
Music  strains  that  so  enchanted, 
And  the  vision  ihat  so  daunted 

Every  sense  of  my  heart's  COFO, 

But  methinks  a  shining  spirit 
From  the  land  the  good  inherit 
Really  came  to  give  monition 
Of  beatified  condition, 

Of  the  loved  ones  gone  to  rest; 
And  I  patient  wait  my  going 
To  the  land  with  bliss  o'erflowing, 
Where  I  never  more  shall  sorrow, 
But  where  brighter  beams  each  morrowj 

For  the  pure  and  heaven-blest. 

Oh,  blest  land  of  The  Forever 
Shall  one  mortal  see  thee  never, 
Never  look  upon  thy  glories, 
Spoken  of  in  olden  stories, 

Talked  of  in  the  Book  divine  ? 


248 

Is  there  one  of  earthly  number 
Who  can  in  his  sins  so  slumber, 
And  neglect  his  soul's  well-being, 
Never  from  his  sinning  fleeing 
Till  Death's  arms  his  form  entwines! 

Pray,  forbid  it,  Gracious  Father! 
Let  the  sinner  sorrow  rather, 
And  repent  him  of  his  doings, 
While  he  hears  the  Spirit's  wooings 

And  its  warnings  of  his  fate; 
Turn  him  with  thy  admonition — 
Let  him  feel  his  sad  condition, 
And  look  humbly  to  his  Maker, 
That  in  Christ  he  be  partaker, 

Ere  it  be  for  him  too  late. 

Let  him,  thankful,  feel  Thy  presence, 
Glorying  in  Thy  Ommisciencc; 
And  to  Thee  give  glad  oblation 
For  the  beauties  of  creation — 

For  Thy  ever  watchful  care; 
And  when  Death  has  disencumbered 
His  tried  soul,  let  him  be  numbered 
With  the  beings  like  the  vision 
That  I  saw  from  Fields  Elysian— 

To  thy  courts  may  he  repair. 


249 


WHEN  EVETHNG  PUTS,  ETC. 

When  evening  puts  lier  curtains  down 

With  silent,  shadowy  finger, 
And  stars  like  diamond  circlets  shine, 

And  on  her  dark  brow  linger, 
I  put  my  hat  upon  my  head, 

My  tartan  on  my  shoulder, 
And  turn  my  steps  to  Jenny  Grant's, 

One  short  hour  to  behold  her; 
For  Jenny  is  a  winsome  lass, 

So  gentle  and  so  tender, 
I  mean  with  my  strong  arm  through  life 

From  each  ill  to  defend  her. 

Her  heart,  I  know,  is  warm  and  true, 

I  think  she  loves  me  dearly; 
For  in  her  blushing,  tell-tale  face 

I'm  sure  I  read  it  clearly 

But  who,  alack!  with  steps  so  bold, 

Dares,  there,  before  me  enter? 
Now,  by  my  troth,  't  is  Alec  Mac, 

'T  was  he  that  letter  sent  her: 
Oh,  fickle,  false,  and  soulless  sex! 

While  I'm  a  being  human, 
I  never  will  put  trust  again 

In  any  living  woman. 

Hist!  Jemmy  Gregory,  you're  too  fast, 
Made  quite  too  easy  jealous; 

Within  that  little  parlor  sit 
Two  maidens  fair,  they  tell  us; 


250 

And  one  is  pretty  Jenny  Grant, 

And  one  sweet  Nelly  Campbell — 
There's  room  beside  the  parlor  hearth 

For  you  and  Alec,  ample. 
'T  was  of  her  coming  Nelly  wrote 

To  Jenny  in  that  letter; 
And  Alec  Mac  is  Nell's  betrothed. . . . 

I  hope  you  're  feeling  better. 

Now  Alec's  arm  clasps  Nelly's  waist, 

Warm  lips,  in  love,  are  meeting; 
With  honest,  frank,  and  noble  heart, 

Full  trustful  is  his  greeting. 
From  every  ill  of  life  he'll  raise 

His  manly  arm  to  shield  her; 
Till,  some  day,  he  to  death's  embrace 

Shall  be  obliged  to  yield  her; 
But  woe!  to  winsome  Jenny  Grant, 

So  gentle  and  so  tender, 
If  such  a  jealous  looby's  arms 

Through  life  are  to  defend  her. 


251 


OUR  ANNIE. 

On  the  banks  of  the  smooth-flowing  Salmon 
Stands  the  cot  where  our  Annie  was  born ; 

She  was  fair  as  the  stars  in  the  heavens, 
Ere  pale  they  in  midsummer's  morn. 

Each  day  did  our  fresh  little  blossom 
Unfold  some  new  charm  to  our  "view; 

And  we  strained  her  in  love  to  our  bosom, 
More  dear  as  in  beauty  she  grew. 

Her  eyes  than  the  blue  skies  were  bluer, 
And  bright  in  their  merrisome  beams ; 

Her  voice  in  its  music  was  sweeter 

Than  angel-tones  heard  in  our  dreams. 

Her  ringlets  were  sunny  and  golden, 

Her  cheeks  with  rose-blushes  were  tinged, 

Blooming  soft  in  the  mellowing  shadow 
Of  the  lakelets  above  silken-fringed. 

Her  form  was  as  lithe  as  a  fairy's, 
More  graceful  than  wood  nymph  or  fawn, 

And  her  footsteps  came  ringing  with  gladness, 
L'ke  bird-notes  at  early  day  dawn. 

But  early  one  spring-time  came  sorrow, 
With  wings  dark  and  heavy  as  night, 

Straight  into  our  erst  happy  cottage, 
And  she  pass'd  away  from  our  sight. 


252 


now,  in  my  desolate  chamber, 
W'here  phantom-barks  glide  on  the  wall, 
I  wait  to  pass  over  the  river, 

When  Death,  the  pale  boatman,  shall  call. 

And  another,  who  woo'd  her,  stands  watching 
The  boat  from  the  dimly-lit  shore  ; 

By  mourning  worn  most  to  a  shadow, 
He  soon  the  dark  waves  will  pass  o'er. 


253 


A  STAR  IN  THE  NORTH. 


There  shines  in  the  North  a  bright,  beautiful  star, 

I  wish  I  had  wings  and  could  scan  it ; 
Though  sweetly  it  twinkles  and  glistens  afar — 

Pray  is  it  a  sun  or  a  planet  ? 

Do  beings  immortal,  like  angels,  there  dwell, 

All  sinless  and  sorrowless,  holy  ? 
Nor  was  there  an  Eve  to  ring  happiness'  knell, 

That  earth  might  not  reek  in  sin  solely  ? 

Bright  star  of  the  North  !  I'll  believe  thou  art  blest ; 

That  beings  pure,  beautiful,  shining, 
Rove  in  thy  fair  gardens,  with  soft  verdure  drest, 

Love's  garlands  their  sweet  brows  entwining. 

Who  knows,  lovely  star,  but  some  soul  once  eirth  bound, 

On  thee  tells  its  earth-sadden'd  story  ? 
Perhaps  one  I  lov'd  has  his  heaven  there  found, 

And  basks  in  thy  day-beams  of  glory. 

Bright  star  of  the  North  !  when  my  spirit  takes  flight 
From  the  dim  shores  of  death's  troublous  river, 

Perchance  on  thy  beauteous  plains  it  may  light, 
As  it  wends  on  its  way  to  its  Giver. 


254 


SABBATH  EVENING 


This  is  a  holy  eve  ; 

Angels  breathe  around  us ; 
And  sweetly  soothing  is  the  spell 

W.ith  which  their  love  hath  bound  us. 

This  is  a  holy  eve  ; 

Our  Father-God  is  nearer 
Than  in  the  turmoil  days  of  life, 

And  earth  to  Him  is  dearer. 

This  is  a  holy  eve ; 

In  such  a  twilight  hour 
May  my  freed  spirit  take  its  wingo, 

And  soar  to  Eden's  bower. 


255 


SUNSET. 

My  soul  is  in  love  with  the  sunset  s-kies, 

When  they  shine  in  their  beautiful,  brilliant  dyes, 

When  the  soft-winged  ga^s  fan  my  hot  brow  at  eve, 

Bringing  sweet  scent  from  the  flowers  they  leave, 

And  the  vespers  of  birds  are  afloat  on  the  air, 

As  off  to  their  nests  for  the  night  they  repair ; 

When  the  day -king,  retreating,  is  bidding  good-night, 

Passing  behind  the  red  clouds  out  of  tight, 

Hugging  the  horizon  close  to  his  breast, 

As  if  loth  to  leave  earth  a  while  to  its  rest ; 

While  the  army  of  stars  are  a-donning  their  dress, 

To  march  through  the  skies  while  our  pillows  we  press ; 

Oh,  then  'tis  I  feast  my  glad  soul  on  the  grand 

Paintings  wrought  out  by  the  great  Painter's  hand 


256 


THE  DYING  ONE. 

Come,  stand  beside  ray  bed,  "Willie, 
My  breath  conies  faint  and  slow, 

I  feel  that  I  am  dying,  Willie, 
One  word  before  I  go. 

You've  loved  me  long  and  well,  Willie, 

And  kindly  cared  for  me  ; 
You'll  grieve  when  I  am  dead,  Willie, 

When  Marv's  gone  from  thee. 

Then,  when  I'm  lying  down;  Willie, 
Beneath  the  new-made  mound, 

You'll  come  to  my  lone  grave,  Willie, 
And  plant  sweet  flowers  around. 

The  lily  and  the  rose,  Willie, 

And  pale  forget-me-not, 
Are  flowers  that  I'd  love,  Willie, 

All  o'er  that  little  spot. 

And  you  will  plant  some  trees,  Willie, 

A-near  my  feet  and  head, 
That  birds  may  come  and  sing,  Willie, 

Above  my  lowly  bed. 

And  when  your  tears  shall  fall,  Willie, 

Like  rain  upon  the  sod, 
Remember  that  my  soul,  Willie, 

Hath  upward  soared  to  God. 


257 

Then  by  my  grave  you'll  wait  Willie, 
When  sorrows  round  thee  bide, 

And  think  of  her  there  laid,  Willie, 
You  wooed,  a  happy  bride. 

And  there  you'll  sometimes  kneel,  Willie, 

And  lift  your  heart  above, 
And  I  will  waft  your  prayer,  Willie, 

Where  all  is  peace  and  love. 

Now  kiss  me  a  good-by,  Willie, 

A  long,  a  last  adieu, 
Till  we  shall  meet  again,  Willie, 

In  the  home  I'm  going  to. 


SMILES. 


How  love  we  to  look  on  a  sweet  smiling  face, 
To  young  one  or  old  one  it  addeth  a  grace — 
The  red  laughing  lip  and  the  bright  cheery  eye 
Give  the  homeliest  visage  a  beauty  thereby. 

Have  a  smile  for  the  stranger  as  well  as  the  friend, 
To  a  desolate  heart  it  may  be  a  "  Godsend," 
As  the  rays  of  the  morn  when  she  flashes  her  lights, 
Make  the  pulsing  earth  leap  after  darkest  of  nights. 

Have  a  smile  for  the  rich,  have  a  smile  for  the  poor, 
The  purse  may  not  buy  what  the  heart  would  procure; 
The  soul  of  the  rich  may  sometimes  send  a  cry 
For  a  sweet-sounding  voice  and  a  bright  smiling  eye. 

The  poor  we  know  ever  will  catch  at  the  light 
Of  a  word  and  a  smile,  if  we  mean  it  aright; 
Tis  our  duty  to  God  and  our  duty  to  man 
To  be  pleasing  to  all  if,  unsiuning,  we  can. 


258 


MY  VISION ;  OR,  THE  SOUL'S  TRIUMPH. 

On  the  wings  of  my  spirit  I  rise, 

From  darkness  and  doubt  evermore, 

Away  to  the  beautiful  skies, 
To  regions  of  happiness  soar. 

Ho !  angels,  archangels,  I  come, 
And  tap  at  your  heavenly  gates  ; 

Outside  your  beatified  home 
A  young  fledgling  anxiously  waits. 

Haste  !  lead  me  to  Jesus  the  Lord, 
To  Him  I  obeisance  would  make ; 

My  soul  on  the  strength  of  His  word 
Has  risen  your  joys  to  partake. 

He  found  me  lost,  beggared  and  blind, 
Begrimed  with  the  dust  of  the  earth ; 

He  opened  the  eyes  of  my  mind, 

And  I  came  from  my  chrysalis  forth. 

All  washed  from  pollution  and  sin 
By  the  blood  of  the  Lainb  that  was  slain; 

Your  courts  I  would  fain  enter  in — 
My  garments  are  free  from  a  stain. 

You  open  !     I  enter  !     Hosanna  ! 

My  feet  walk  the  streets'  golden  pave; 
My  soul  feeds  on  heavenly  manna — 

In  Siloa's  waters  I  Live. 

I  drink  at  the  fountain  of  life — 
No  more  shall  I  hunger  and  thirst ; 


259 

I've  fled  from  all  turmoil  and  strife, 
And  left  all  earth's  fetters  accursed. 

Hosanna  !  hosanna  !  I  cry, 

All  glory  to  Him  who  was  slain; 
I  bask  in  the  realms  of  the  sky, 

And  roam  o'er  the  emerald  plain. 

I  shout,  with  the  angelic  throng, 

The  triumphs  from  Jesus'  blood  wrung; 

I  sing  with  redeemed  ones  the  song — 
Golden  harps  to  the  music-strains  strung. 

Hosanna  !  hosanna  to  God  ! 

High  heaven's  broad  arches  loud  ring ; 
Hosanna  to  Jesus  the  Lord  ! 

Triumphant,  cherubic  hosts  sing. 

(Hosanna  !  those  who  would  be  good, 

And  humbly  repent  them  of  sin, 
Will  be  washed  and  redeemed  by  Christ's  bloody 

And  through  heaven's  gates  enter  in.) 

Hosanna  !  the  victory's  won  ! 

I'll  grovel  in  darkness  no  more — 
My  sands  from  earth's  hour-glass  have  run, 

I  tread  on  the  seraphim's  shore. 

I  wear  on  my  head  a  bright  crown, 
And  wave  heaven's  palms  in  my  hand  j 

My  garments  are  softer  than  down, 
And  shine  in  the  beautiful  land. 

My  censer  no  more  burneth  out, 

Nor  pales  in  the  light  of  the  sun : 
Hosanna  !  all  hail !  do  I  shout, 

I've  fou.  ht,  and  the  victory's  won. 


260 

With  pinions  unfettered  forever, 
No  s'riving,  nor  sorrow,  nor  pain; 

Earth's  sunlight  shall  shine  on  me  never, 
Here  the  Sun  of  the  Godhead  doth  reign. 

The  beams  of  His  righteousness  lighten 
The  concave  of  heaven's  high  blue  ; 

No  candle  or  moonlight  to  b lighten 
The  holy  Jerusalem  new. 

Hosanna  !  hosanna !  hosanna  ! 

I  cast  my  crown  low  at  Thy  feet ; 
I  feed  upon  heavenly  manna, 

And  walk  on  the  golden-paved  street. 

Hosatma  !  hosanna  !  eternal 

The  wings  of  my  spirit  are  free  ; 

I  fly  in  the  regions  supernal. 
By  blood  shed  on  Calvary's  tree. 

I  rest  in  the  smile  of  the  Giver ; 

I  roam  at  His  loving  command  ; 
I  float  o'er  the  crystalline  river — 

Regale  ine  where  zephyrs  are  bland. 

I  walk  in  the  gardens  celestial ; 

My  soul  in  its  heavenly  flights, 
Unclogged  by  the  fetters  terrestrial, 

Soars  o'er  the  empyreal  heights. 

Hosanna  !  hosanna  !  with  angels 

I  worship,  I  love,  I  adore  ! 
With  angels,  archangels,  evangels, 

And  Jesus  I'll  live  evermore  ! 


261 


WILLIE  WOOER. 

Willie  Wooer  stands  tapping, 
A-calling  and  rapping, 

To  enter  my  warm,  cozy  heart ; 
He  is  chilly  and  lonely, 
And  says,  "  If  I  only 

Will  bid  him  walk  in — not  depart, 
He'll  reward  msj  most  handsome, 
Give  his  own  heart  as  ransom  " — 

Declaring  'tis  faithful  and  fond — 
"  I  shall  share  in  his  pottage, 
His  purse  and  his  cottage, 

And  his  hand  shall  go  into  the  bocd." 

But  my  heart's  door  shuts  tightly, 
Nor  opens  it  lightly 

To  wooer,  tho'  constant  and  bold  ; 
I'm  afraid  if  a  lover 
Should  walk  under  its  cover, 

Sweet  peace  would  escape  from  its  fold. 
So,  Willie,  stop  rapping, 
I  fain  would  be  napping, 

While  Cupid  storms  some  other  fort ; 
Some  softer  heart  enter, 
Walk  into  its  center-— 

At  the  altar  your  conquest  report. 


262 


A  SONG  OF  THE  SEA. 


Off,  off  and  away  o'er  the  white  sea-foam, 

With  sails  all  unfurled,  doth  our  proud  ship  roam ; 

No  sombre  cloud  in  our  sky  is  seen, 

But  the  silver  sheen  of  our  nightly  queen, 

While  the  stars  look  out  in  their  prettiest  dress, 

And  smile  in  their  sparkling  loveliness. 

Off,  off  and  away  o'er  the  deep  blue  sea 
F.oats  our  gallant  bark  right  merrily, 
And  every  eye  on  its  deck  to-night 
Laughs  in  its  glee  as  the  winds  blow  light, 
And  every  heart  is  as  glad  and  gay 
As  a  soaring  bird  in  a  midsummer's  day. 

Give,  give  me  the  sea  when  the  breeze  is  fair, 
And  the  sky  is  clear  and  the  stars  shine  there, 
With  the  water's  flash  as  the  vessel  rides, 
And  light  o'er  its  mirroring  surface  glides ; 
Oh,  I  glory  then  in  the  boundless  deep, 
On  whose  peerless  bosom  the  wild  waves  sleep. 

And  give  me  the  sea  when  the  waves  run  high, 
And  the  billows  clash  \\ith  the  raging  sky  ; 
When  the  thunders  peal  'mid  the  lightning's  glar<^, 
And  the  vessel  sports  like  a  thing  of  air, 
And  the  foam-caps  mad  in  mountains  tower — 
Oh,  I  glory  then  in  its  mighty  power. 

Hurra  for  the  sea  !     I'm  a  sailor  bold, 
But  I  kneel  to  Him  who  the  sea  doth  hold  ; 


2C3 

i 

And  when  it  boils  in  its  mighty  wrath, 
And  the  wild  winds  sweep  the  vessel's  path, 
I  bow  me  in  awe  to  the  Potent  Will, 
Who  saith  to  the  winds  and  waves,  "  Be  still." 

And  hurra  for  the  bark  like  mine  to-night, 
That  leaps  the  waves  in  her  joyous  flight: 
Or  that  fearless  rocks  when  the  tempest  raves, 
And  the  storm-king  howls  in  old  ocean's  caves ; 
Oh,  she  is  dear  as  my  heart's  life-blood — 
"Tis  she  o'er  my  destiny  reigns  next  to  God. 

Then  give  me  the  sea,  the  glorious  sea, 

In  storm  or  in  calm,  whiche'er  it  may  be, 

And  the  friendly  hand  of  the  brave,  g  .llant  tar, 

Who  faces  the  dangers  when  fierce  tempests  war, 

And  the  proud  bark  that  safe  o'er  the  wild  waves  doth 

leap — 
Oh,  the  joy  of  my  heart  is  a  life  on  the  deep. 


264 


BEAUTIFUL  BIRD. 


Beautiful  bird,  come  hither  to  me — 
Never  a  harm  will  I  do  to  thee — 
Thou  shalt  partake  of  my  daintiest  fare ; 
Come,  and  I'll  feed  thee  with  lovingest  care, 

Beautiful  bird  ! 

Beautiful  bird,  fly  into  my  bower, 
Perch  on  my  sweetest  and  prettiest  flower  - 
Come,  and  I'll  give  thee  some  down  for  a  nest 
In  shrub  or  in  tree  that  thou  lovest  the  best, 

Beautiful  bird  ! 

Beautiful  bird,  do  not  flutter  and  start, 
Come,  and  I'll  hold  thee  so  close  to  my  heart; 
Fold  in  my  bosom  thy  soft  little  wing, 
Rest  thee  and  chirp  there  and  prettily  sing  ! 

Beautiful  bird  ! 

Beautiful  bird,  wilt  thou  leave  me  so  soon, 
Never  once  stopping  to  sing  me  a  tune  ? 
Off  to  the  green-wood  away,  out  of  sighly 
Never  once  waiting  to  warble  good-night  ? 

Beautiful  bird ! 

Beautiful  bird,  wilt  ihou  never  return  ? 
Have  I  nothing  will  lure  th  e  from  forest  and  fern  ? 
But  true  to  thy  home  and  thy  mate  wilt  thou  prove  ? 
Thus  teaching  a  lesson  of  dutiful  love, 

Beautiful  bird ! 


265 


THE  MAIDEN'S  CONFESSION. 


Those  eyes,  they  pierce  my  very  soul ; 

In  vain  I  strive  to  break  the  spell; 
But  over  me  they  've  such  control, 

I  hardly  dare,  confessing,  tell. 

So  deep  the  penetrating  gaze 
They  turn  upon  me,  that  they  start 

The  early  loves  of  bygone  days, 
Not  dead,  but  sleeping  in  my  heart. 

I  know  't  is  wrong  for  me  to  feel, 

So  exquisitely,  all  their  power; 
And  I  essay  each  art  to  steel 

My  bosom  in  the  tempting  hour. 

Yet  when  within  mine  ear  his  case 
He  pleads,  so  warm  and  earnestly, 

I  list,  though  on  his  soul  I  trace 
A  sad,  a  dark  deformity. 

Another  lovelier,  fairer  one, 
An  innocent  and  trusting  heart, 

He  sought  and  won  with  loving  tone, 
With  all  a  truthful  lover's  art. 

But  soon  he  sickened  of  the  prize, 

And  from  that  pure  heart  faithless  turned; 

Her  bruised  spirit  sought  the  skies, 

And  found  the  rest  for  which  it  yearned. 

Oh,  if  man,  once  inconstant,  spurns 
The  virtuous  love  for  which  he  sought, 

His  fond  gaze  on  another  turns, 
With  warm  and  earnest  pleadings  fraught; 


266 

Shall  not  the  sister-woman  shun 

The  spell  he  fain  would  o'er  her  cast, 

And  thus  revenge  the  injured  one, 
With  broken  heart,  who  sleeps  at  last ; 

But  who  forgave  the  cruel  wrong, 
As  she  would  wish  to  be  forgiven. 

And  with  his  Maker  wrestled  long, 
That  he  might  share  her  rest  in  Heaven? 

Alas!  with  shame  I  can  but  own, 

Not  lost  is  all  his  suasive  art; 
Too  deeply  sinks  the  anxious  tone 

Into  my  weak  and  wayward  heart. 

Those  eyes,  so  meaning  in  their  gaze, 
Have,  o'er  my  spirit,  such  control, 

They  wake  the  foves  of  early  days, 
Long  buried  in  my  inmost  soul; 

They  peer  upon  me  in  my  sleep — 
In  dreams  I  try  to  fly  their  power; 

But  all  in  vain  th'  attempt,  I  weep, 
And,  wearied,  wake  in  night's  still  hour. 

Oh,  help  me  Heaven!  to  school  my  mind, 

To  feel  indifference  or  disgust 
Toward  the  man  who,  thus  unkind, 

Wins,  then  betrays,  the  sacred  trust. 


267 


THE  SONG  I  LOVE 


Sung  in  Former  Times  by  a  Sister  Now  Dead. 

Dear  Mary,  sing  for  me  the  song 

I  so  delight  to  hear, 
And  when  I  die,  let  the  ref.  ain 

Linger  within  mine  ear. 

Methinks  'twould  ease  the  pangs  of  death. 

And  waft  my  soul  above 
On  lighter  wings,  if  from  thy  lips 

Was  breathed  the  song  I  love. 

Dear  Mary,  didst  thou  ever  deem 

It  was  an  echo  come 
Floating  on  wings  of  seraphim 

From  their  celestial  home  ? 

Oh,  often  when  mine  eyes  are  closed 

In  slumber's  happy  spell, 
Have  angels  b  eathed  the  self-same  song, 

I  knew  the  numbers  well. 

Then  Mary,  when  I'm  dying,  sing 

The  song  to  me  so  dear — 
My  soul  will  wait  the  sweet  refrain 

Its  upward  path  to  cheer. 

And  wouldst  thou  sometimes  lure  me  back, 
When  I  have  passed  death's  portal, 

Then  sing  that  more  than  seraph  s.ong 
To  charm  mine  ear  immortal. 


208 


HEARTH  AND  HOME. 


Gone  !  Gone  !  Alas,  'tis  vanished  now 

The  Hearth  of  other  years. 
Gone  with  the  purer  hopes  and  loves, 

The  heartfelt  smiles  and  tears. 
Gone  !  and  the  angels  looking  down 

Miss  the  best  joy  of  earth — 
The  happy  family  sitting  round 

The  cheerful  household  hearth. 

I  see  with  memory's  wistful  eye 

A  hearth  of  other  days 
Where  father,  mother,  children,  friends 

Begirt  the  evening  blaze 
Speeding  the  time  with  youthful  chat, 

Or  tales  of  soberer  age, 
Of  bygone  joys,  or  bygone  woes 

Gleaned  from  experience'  page. 

I  see  with  memory's  wistful  eye, 

A  happy  cottage  home—- 
Ere mother  journeyed  to  the  skies 

Or  brother  sought  to  roam — 
Where  dropped  the  purest,  kindest  tones 

That  children  ever  heard. 
The  softest,  sweetest  lullaby — 

The  gentlest  chiding  word. 

Gone  is  the  cot  of  earlier  years, 

And  that  fair  family  tree. 
Long  sorely  smitten  by  the  blast 

Has  bowed  to  destiny. 
But  naught,  to  me,  can  ever  fill 

That  vacant  spot  on  earth, 
Or  half  compare  in  blessedness 

To  the  old  Home  and  Hearth.* 


269 


PLEADINGS. 


Take  me  to  thy  manly  bosom, 

Clasp  me  in  thine  arms  once  more, 
Let  my  heart  'gainst  thine  be  beating, 

As  it  beat  in  days  of  yore. 
Let  me  feel  thy  b'eath  upon  me, 

While  thine  eyes  with  love-beams  shine 
With  the  same  magnetic  lustre 

As  when  erst  they  gazed  in  mine. 
Let  thy  manners  speak  thou  lov'st  me, 

By  thine  actions  may  I  know 
Thou  still  prizest  me  the  dearest 

Of  all  beings  here  below. 

Speak  again  sweet  woids  of  fondness  ; 

For  thy  love  my  soul's  athirpt ; 
Press  thy  warm  lips  on  my  forehead, 

Bre  ithing  vows  thou  breathcdst  first, 
Ere  thou  plightedst  at  the  altar 

To  me  thine  eternal  troth, 
When  my  trembling  lips  did  falter 

"Yes,"  though  naught  was  my  heart  loth 
To  be  given  to  thy  keeping, 

To  exchanged  be  for  thine  own, 
And.  if  I  have  thee  offended, 

Let  my  sorrow  now  atone. 

It  were  worse  than  death  to  see  thee, 
With  thy  proud  and  piercing  eye, 


270 

Longer  coldly  look  upon  me, 

Or  unheeded  pass  me  by 
As  if  I  were  but  a  stranger, 

Or  of  slight  acquaint  at  best, 
I,  who  once  was  all  thou  wishedst, 

Who  each  thought  to  thce  confess 
Oh,  if  all  the  earth  posscs^est 

Were  mine  own.  yet  life  were  woe 
From  thy  heart  to  be  thus  banished, 

Thy  fond  love  no  more  to  know. 

"  Woman,"  say'st  thou  true,  "  is  faulty," 

Angels  dwell  not  on  the  earth, 
And  should  one  chance  here  to  linger, 

She  were  not  of  mortal  birth  ; 
And  should  man,  however  noble, 

To  an  angel  wedded  be, 
'Twould  not  be  a  perfect  union, 

Heaven  and  earth  so  disagree. 
Then,  again  love  smile  upon  me, 

Mortals  should  their  kind  forgive, 
And  though  I  may  have  offended, 

In  thy  bosom  let  me  live. 


271 


A  HINT  TO  HUSBANDS. 


My  thoughts  will  winder,  how  can  they  bo  true 

To  one  with  such  a  cold  and  callous  heart! 
How  can  I  school  each  pulse  to  throb  for  you, 

When  no  return  is  made  me  on  your  part! 
Oh,  I  so  long  to  feel  myself  beloved, 

And  hear  low,  tender  words  breathed  in  mine  car! 
To  know  that  one  whose  constancy  is  proved 

Holds  me  of  all  the  things  of  earth  most  dear, 
That  I  am  tempted,  when  one  prized  of  old 

Essays  again  his  deathless  love  to  speak, 
To  listen  to  the  slighted  tale,  erst  told, 

Ere  I  was  bound  by  bands  so  strong,  yet  weak! 
Strong  for  the  law  has  made  them  iron  bands; 
Weak,  for  your  iceberg  heart  no  love  commands! 

Oh,  save  me,  Alfred!     Let  your  bosom  cold 

Warm  with  fond  tenderness  toward  your  wife; 
Were  you  but  kind,  one  little  thread  would  hold 

Me  faithful  to  you,  till  the  last  of  life— 
But  now  my  heart,  formed  but  to  throb  in  love, 

Yearns  to  send  forth  its  tendrils,  and  to  cling 
Unto  some  answering  heart,  or  freely  rove 

To  sip  the  nectar  from  each  lovely  thing. 
I  scarce  have  power  to  curb  its  longing  throes 

And  teach  it  with  schooled  apathy  to  beat; 
Its  gushing  fountain  almost  overflows 

Its  iron  bounds,  its  kindred  throb  to  greet. 
Oh,  'tis  a  piteous  thing  to  waste  on  air 
The  heart's  deep  feelings,  that  with  none  must  share. 


272 


My  Alfred,  save  me!  be  to  me  more  kind, 

Give  me  some  tender  token  of  your  love; 
Oh,  do  j-ou  wish  my  heart  to  you  to  bind, 

Let  not  harsh  negligence  your  troth  disprove; 
I  should  not  sin  to  drink  in  your  fond  words, 

If  such  you  deign  to  breathe  within  mine  ear — 
Let  there  be  in  your  breast  responsive  chords, 

And  my  inconstancy  you  should  not  fear. 
But  chill  me  as  you  now  doth  chill,  each  day, 

And  we  may  both  be  brought  to  curse  the  hour 
When  lawful  wedlock  bound  our  hands  for  aye, 

But  o'er  our  hearts  estranged  had  no  such  power. 
Husband,  beware!    If  you  would  hold  for  life 
Me  constant  to  you  treat  me  as  your  wife. 

Address  me  as  you  did  in  days  gone  by, 

When  you  so  tremblingly  your  love  professed — • 
When  fond  entreaty  plead  from  your  dark  eye, 

And  I  so  blushingly  my  own  confessed. 
Press  now,  as  then,  my  hand  within  your  own, 

And  to  your  breast,  impulsive,  clasp  again 
The  being  frail  who  gladly  would  atone 

For  every  faithless  thought  to  you  since  then. 
For  I  can  vouch  my  longing  soul  to  brook 

No  longer  coldness  such  as  you  now  give; 
My  heart  must  wither  'neath  that  icy  look, 

Or  its  fidelity  at  length  outlive: 
The  yearning  Teachings  of  its  tendrils  forth, 
Must  find  some  clinging  spot  in  Heaven  or  earth. 

1855. 


TO  A  BIRD  IN  CENTRAL  PARK. 


Dear  pretty,  sweet  pretty,  bright  pretty  bird, 

Perching  low  in  the  juniper  tree, 
The  loveliest  songster  that  ever  I  heard, 

Did  you  sing  that  sweet  song,  dear,  to  me  ? 

Let  Jenny  Lind  graceful  and  Nilsson  the  fair 

Trill  their  finest  artistical  note, 
Their  songs,  to  my  mind,  can  never  compare 

With  warblings  from  tiny  bird's  throat. 

Dear  pretty,  sweet  pretty,  bright  pretty  bird, 

Don't  fly  away  now  from  the  tree  ; 
The  loveliest  songster  that  ever  I  heard  ! 

Sing  that  song  again,  dear  one,  for  me. 

The  songs  of  these  wood-glades  are  caroled  for  all, 

The  pretty  birds  enravish  the  ear; 
The  richest,  the  poorest,  the  great  and  the  small, 

Without  fee,  nature's  wai biers  may  hear. 

Come,  then,  to  these  wood-haunts  ye  sad  ones  and  gay, 

Where  thousands  of  harmonists  sing, 
Giving  finest  of  concerts  this  lovely  June  day, 

As  sweet  as  first  flowrets  in  spring. 

1871. 


274 


LINES  WRITTEN  UPON  HEARING  THE  REPORT 
THAT  ENGLAND  WAS  COMING  OVER  TO 
AID  THE  NORTH  IN  SUBJUGATING  THE 
SLAVE  STATES. 


Back  to  old  England  ;  back  where  ye  belong, 
Ye  tyrant  hordes,  where  force  of  arms  is  strong 
To  quell  a  people's  might  and  guard  a  Throne  ; 
Back  despots,  back  ;  leave  Freedom's  soil  alone. 

Ye  Democrats,  erst  pillars  of  our  Land, 
Are  ye  all  powerless  to  War's  rule  withstand  ? 
Where  all  your  giant  minds  whose  counsels  wise 
Made  tyrants  quail,  and  myriads  lift  their  eyes 
With  new-born  hope  as  spied  they  from  afar 
The  beaming  glories  of  earth's  Polar-star  ? 

My  lov'd,  my  native  Land  !     How  fall'n  thou  ! 
Freedom  and  Peace  have  spread  their  wings,  and  now 
Are  fleeing  thy  broad  shores  with  sorrowing  cry, 
And  War's  red  pennon  floats  along  the  sky. 
How  fall'n  !  thankless  that  our  fathers  bled, 
And  broke  the  tyrant's  yoke  that  we  might  tread, 
With  form  uplift,  our  proud  and  native  soil, 
No  more  beneath  a  tyrant's  power  to  moil. 

O  Shades  of  Liberty's  brave  champions,  Come, 
Return  and  strike  War's  clamorous  chieftains  dumb 
As  ye  were  wont.     With  words  of  wisdom  quell 
The  warring  passions  that  among  us  dwell, 
Let  your  blest  spirits  heavenly  dews  impart, 
Till  Love  and  Peace  again  fill  every  heart. 


275 
'TIS  PAST. 


'Tispast !    O  God,  'tis  past  ! 

Our  prayers  for  peace  were  vain  ; 
Confusion  sweeps  our  native  shores, 

And  War  doth  o'er  us  reign. 
Upon  our  own  proud  land 

He  stalks  with  giant  tread, 
And  Liberty — our  goddess  lov'd — 

Afar  has  weeping  fled. 

The  din  of  arms  is  heard  ; 

The  martial  fife  and  drum — 
Each  mountain,  hill,  and  vale  is  stirr'd- 

From  north  and  south  they  come, 
With  fratricidal  hand 

To  spill  a  brother's  blood — 
I  hear,  methinks,  the  dying  groans, 

I  see  the  crimson  flood  ! 

Aye,  to  my  vision  comes 

The  blood-drench'd  battle-plain — 
Husbands  and  fathers  in  their  gore — 

Brothers  and  lovers  slain — 
I  list  the  widow's  wail, 

I  mark  the  orphan's  tears, 
I  see  the  maiden's  cheek  turn  pale, 

Blanch'd  for  the  coming  years. 

Homes  fall  before  my  sight, 
Where  erst  around  each  hearth 

Parents  and  children  happy  clasp'd 

Their  best  belov'd  of  earth  ; 

And  altars  where  they  met 
To  worship  in  God's  name 

Have  sunk  to  ashes.     War's  red  torch 
Lit  the  destroying  flame. 


276 


O  God  !  and  must  it  be  ? 

Is  such  our  country's  doom  ? 
Have  Peace  and  Love  join'd  hands  and  fled 

To  give  dire  Carnage  room  ? 
Must  War,  by  thee  uncheck'd, 

Scourge  us  with  fire  and  sword — 
Make  hearths  and  cities  desolate 
And  Freedom's  name  abhorr'd  ? 

O  Christian,  let  us  bow 

Humbly  beneath  the  rod — 
~\Ye  have  deserved  the  scourge  and  shame. 

Our  sins  have  rcach'd  to  God  ; 
Let  us  confess  and  turn 

From  every  wicked  way, 
That  He  may  bend  Him  down  to  hear, 

And  heed  us  when  we  pray. 


277 
TWO  BROTHERS. 


Two  youthful  brothers  fired  by  Mars 
Enlisted  in  their  country's  wars  ; 
One  for  the  North — one  for  the  South 
Went  forth  to  face  the  cannon's  mouth. 
A  widow's  pride  and  prop  were  they  ; 
She  tried  with  prayers  and  tears  to  stay 
Them  from  the  fratricidal  strife, 
Lest  one  should  take  the  other's  life. 
But  vain  her  pleadings  with  each  son — 
Ea«h  felt  that  he  was  called  upon 
To  battle  in  a  righteous  cause — 
One  for  his  u  Home  " — one  for  the  "  Laws.' 
Two  great  contending  armies  met — 
The  battle-plain  with  gore  was  wet, 
For  thick  the  wounded  and  the  kill'd 
Fell  fast  upon  the  murderous  field. 
Wilder,  more  dreadful  grew  the  fray 
From  morning  till  the  close  of  day  ; 
When  lo  !  the  Northern  army  fled, 
Leaving  their  dying  and  their  dead. 
Next  morn,  upon  the  crimson  ground 
Lying  side  by  side  two  youths  were  found. 
Two  stripling  youths  with  foreheads  bold, 
And  ghastly  faces  icy  cold — 
With  many  a  gash  and  wound  to  tell 
Each  bravely  fought  and  bravely  fell — 
Lay  bleaching  in  the  sun's  hot  ray, 
No  more  to  see  the  light  of  day. 
Sad  news  goes  fast — the  direful  word 
"  Her  sons  were  slain  "  the  widow  heard. 
Her  noble  sons  bclov'd  and  brave 
"  Both  sleeping  in  one  gory  grave." 
Then,  Oh  the  agony  !  the  woe  ! 
Frenzied  she  cried,  "  Who  dealt  the  blow 
That  spilt  the  life-blood  of  each  son  ? 
Was't  by  his  brother's  hand  'twas  done  ?  " 


278 


And  night  and  day  this  widow's  prayer 

Is  constant  borne  upon  the  air — 

"  O  Thou  who  lookest  from  afar 

On  this  vile,  fratricidal  war  ? 

Thou  who  didst  give  my  brave  sons  breath, 

And  seest  them  now  lie  cold  in  death, 

Smite  him  with  thine  avenging  hand 

Who  brought  this  curse  upon  our  Land  ; 

And  bid  the  angels  whisper  low 

(For  surely,  Heaven,  thou  must  know) 

If  by  a  brotlrer's  hand  was  slain 

My  boys  upon  the  battle-plain.  • 

One  for  the  '  North  '—one  for  the  '  South  ' 

They  faced  the  belching  cannon's  mouth  ; 

And  each  was  taught  the  art  to  send 

The  deadly  ball  some  life  to  end. 

O  God  !     O  angels  !  whisper  low, 

Who  gave  my  boys  the  fatal  blow. 

O  tell  me,  Heaven  !     O  tell  me,  God  ! 

Did  either  shed  his  brother's  blood, 

And  enter  with  the  mark  of  Cain 

The  dreary  realms  of  Death's  domain  ?  " 

Grief-wild,  will  not  this  widow's  cries, 

With  others,  reach  beyond  the  skies 

Till  the  Avenger's  mighty  hand 

Shall  purge  and  purify  our  Land, 

And  send  sweet  Peace  to  reign  once  more 

Upon  our  own  fair,  native  shore  ? 

Sisters,  who  love  the  "  Prince  of  Peace  " 

Plead  in  His  name  till  war  shall  cease. 


279 
A  CALL  TO  DEMOCRATS. 


Sweet  Liberty  !  late  goddess  of  our  land, 

Where  hast  thou  lied  ?  Where  wavest  now  thy  wand  ? 

On  what  far  hill — or  fairer,  wiser  shore 

Dost  thou  now  smile  ?    Hast  gone  forevermore  ? 

Ye  Democrats,  who  erst  the  ship  of  state 
Did  safely  guide  to  port  o'et  dangers  great, 
Where  are  ye  now  while  plunging  is  the  bark 
Through  wildly  raging  billows  deep  and  dark  ? 
Sleep  ye  ?  or  has  death  sealed  in  bliss  your  eyes 
To  all  your  bleeding  country's  agonies  ? 
Or  are  ye  palsied  by  the  breath  of  Mars, 
And  helpless  bow  to  these  ungodly  wars  ? 
Wake  from  your  lethargy — reach  forth  a  hand 
To  save,  ere  tis  too  late,  your  sinking  land  ! 
Speak  ye  in  thunder  tones  till  far  and  near 
Your  words  of  wisdom  every  car  shall  hear, 
And  war,  abashed,  be  banished  from  our  shore, 
And  Peace  and  Freedom  bless  our  land  once  nfore. 
AUGUST,  1861. 


280 
AN  APPEAL  TO  FREEMEN. 


Ye  votaries  of  Liberty, 

Let  not  your  country  call  in  vain  ; 
Shake  off  your  soulless  lethargy — 

Plead  ye  her  cause  on  land  and  main. 
Speak,  freemen,  from  each  hill  and  vale, 

From  town  and  hamlet  far  and  near, 
Until  your  counsels  wise  prevail, 

And  Peace  return  our  hearts  to  cheer. 

'Tis  time  to  do — 'tis  time  to  dare — 

Ilise,  freemen,  rise  to  save  our  land  ; 
Let  Wisdom's  voice  ring  on  the  air 

From  one  united  giant  band, 
Till  the  destroying,  ruthless  foe, 

By  Freedom's  glad  and  mighty  tread 
Prone  on  the  dust  is  trampled  low, 

And  war,  for  aye,  our  shores  hath  fled. 

Ilise  ye,  who  have  the  souls  of  men, 

'Tis  now  no  time  to  shrink  or  wait  ; 
Your  country  calls — from  hill  and  glen 

A  wail  goes  up  to  Heaven's  gate. 
In  trumpet  tones,  in  Heaven's  name, 

Dare  in  the  face  of  tyranny 
To  shout  till  freemen's  hearts  aflame 

Burn  tierce  again  for  Liberty. 

Rise  !  make  the  base  usurper  quail 

Beneath  your  words  of  mighty  power. 
Your  country's  wounds  make  haste  to  heal 

Ere  dark  de'spair  doth  o'er  her  lower, 
And  Freedom's  star  goes  down  in  night 

No  more  to  beam  with  gladdening  ray  ; 
Rise  ye,  'tis  time  that  wisdom's  might 

Our  native  land  again  should  sway. 
AUGUST,  1861. 


28  L 
A  CRY  FOR  PEACE. 


The  air  is  filled  with  wailings  o'er  the  dead  ; 

And  tears  of  sorrow  flood  our  land  like  rain  ; 
While  leagues  on  leagues  of  Southern  soil  arc  red, 

Stained  by  the  hand  of  Abolition  Cain. 

And  God,  Almighty  God,  has  seen  the  deed, 
And  heard  the  cry  of  horror  and  of  woe  ; 

And  Heaven  itself  has  donned  the  mourning  weed 
While  tears  of  pity  in  its  precincts  flow. 

And  yet — and  yet  the  horrid  work  goes  on, 
And  men  called  "  ministers"  still  shriek  for  blood, 

And  fain  the  gore  they  call  "  the  nation's  wine  " 
Would  quaff  with  smacking  lip,  in  face  of  God. 

And  women,  too,  there  are  of  high  degree, 
With  burning  thirst  for  gore  not  yet  allayed 

Who  cry,  beseeching,  on  the  bended  knee, 
"  Prosper  our  arms,  nor  let  the  war  be  stayed 

Till  o'er  each  Southern  hearth  our  hordes  have  poured 

The  reeking  cup  of  Abolition  hate — 
Till  every  Southern  man  has  felt  the  sword 

That  goeth  forth  his  land  to  desolate." 

Alas  !  we  too  can  plead,  and  day  by  day, 

Ascends  our  soulful,  agonizing  prayer. 
"  O  God  of  Power  !  O  God  of  pity  !  stay 

The  slaughtering  hand  that  doth  Thy  vengeance  dare  : 

O  Christ  of  God,  speak  'Peace,  be  still  !'   once  more 
Assuage  these  billows  that  have  surged  in  wrath  ; 

And  from  our  precious  Country's  either  shore 
Bid  Peace  speed  o'er  the  warriors  ruddy  path." 


Peace  doth  Prosperity  and  Love  beget  ; 

But  war  breeds  liate,  then  ruin  follows  fast ; 
O  brothers  wise,  let  no  more  eyes  be  wet 

Nor  hearts  be  cleft  as  in  the  dark  days  past. 

O  sisters  dear,  bid  kindly  feelings  rise 
Within  your  breasts  erst  gentle  and  humane  ; 

Pray,  pray  for  Peace  till  Heaven  heeds  your  cries 
And  sends  the  balm  to  heal  our  Nation's  pain. 

And  ye,  who  have  besmeared  with  brother's  blood 
Your  sacerdotal  robe  once  spotless  white, 

Throw  off  the  garb — 'tis  an  offense  to  God, 
Close  your  stained  lips,  polluted  in  His  sight. 


283 
GOVERNOR  SEYMOUR. 


If  pleasant  sunrises  and  cloudless  skies, 

Are  Nature's  auguries  of  good  to  men, 
Last  New  Year's  morn  brought  blessed  auspices, 

Bright,  golden-footed,  to  our  State.     'Twas  then 
One  firm  in  Right,  who  danger  dared  to  face — 

A  nobleman  in  heart  and  soul  did  stand 
Within  our  Capitol,  and  "  with  God's  grace  " 

Vowed  to  protect  a  part  of  this  our  land 
In  all  its  lawful  rights.     And  he  will  keep 

His  sacred  oath,  though  wrathful  foes  assail, 
And  threaten  him  with  dungeons  dark  and  deep. 

Nor  slacken  will  his  arm,  nor  eye  will  quail 
Though  thousands  point  at  him  the  leveled  spear. 

One  strong  with  God  within  him  cannot  fear. 

And  we  have  seen  this  man  of  noble  worth, 

Of  lofty  brow,  and  fearless,  stainless  soul. 
'Twas  when  the  waves  of  sorrow  round  our  hearth, 

Sent  by  a  vengeful  foe,  did  darkly  roll, 
That  he  did  speak  to  us  in  hopeful  words, 

And  stirred  anew  the  Faith  we  cherished  dear, 
That  kept  within  our  breasts  the  tender  chords 

From  severing  ;  though  frequent  gushed  the  tear 
At  thought  of  One  who  from  his  home  was  torn, 

And  without  stain  of  crime,  imprisoned  far 
Upon  a  lonely  isle  by  sea- waves  worn, 

In  granite  walls,  which  long  did  him  debar 
Of  the  sweet  home-light  that  around  him  flowed 

When  Freedom  in  our  peaceful  realms  abode. 

Aye,  we  have  seen  him — and  our  faith  is  strong 
That  he  will  aid  to  raise  the  sinking  bark, 

That  'mid  huge  shoals  and  quicksands,  hath  so  long 
Been  dashing  pilotlcss  and  in  the  dark, 

Far  from  its  native  haven.     He  will  steer 
It  safely  o'er  the  turbid,  troubled  sea 


284 

Now  rolling  wildly,  and  with  wisdom  veer 

Its  course,  until  'tis  anchored  by  the  lea 
Where  no  rough  winds  nor  raging  waves  again 

Shall  have  the  power  to  dash  its  rock-ribbed  sides 
Over  the  billows  of  the  angry  main 

Where  tyrant  Neptune  as  a  god  presides. 
Aye,  God  will  help  him  in  the  path  of  Right, 

Peace,  soon,  will  smile  a  sun  where  now  is  night. 

Yes,  God  will  help  him,  though  black  surges  roll 

Over  our  saddened  land  as  mountains  high. 
Though  enemies  to  public  weal  control 

Our  Nation  now,  as  with  an  evil  eye — 
Though  mad  fanatics  rave  in  frantic  rage 

To  bury  deep  in  seas  of  human  gore 
Our  noble  ship  of  state — help  him  assuage 

The  rushing  tempest — still  the  thunder's  roar, 
Till  stars  again  look  forth  from  cloudless  skies, 

Till  sunbeams  float  upon  their  azure  folds, 
Till  Liberty,  our  Goddess,  shall  arise 

And  sway  again  the  sceptre,  that  she  holds 
Over  a  country  purified  by  fire, 

And  purged,  for  aye,  of  abolition  ire. 

Yet  though  God  help  him  thus — the  thousands  slain, 

Half  buried,  and  unburied,  that  did  fall 
Upon  our  vast,  vast  Southern  battle-plain, 

No  god-like  power  will  aid  him  to  recall. 
Nor  can  he  dry  the  countless  streaming  eyes, 

Nor  heal  the  countless  breaking  hearts  that  mourn 
Of  those  who  waited  long,  'mid  hopes  and  sighs, 

Their  brave,  their  noble  best  belov'ds'  return. 
But  he  can  say — and  myriads  hope  he  will, 

That  vain  increase  of  blood  from  brother's  veins 
Shall  no  more  trickle  down  a  Southern  hill, 

Nor  darkly  flow  along  the  Southern  plains. 
Would  that  such  voice  could  now  have  potent  sway, 

And  hideous  War  "  in  hot  haste"  flee  away. 
1803. 


28o 
RAPPAHANNOCK. 


Darkness  shrouds  our  every  mountain, 

Mantles  every  hill  and  glen, 
Broods  o'er  sea  and  lake  and  river, 
*     Reaches  every  haunt  of  men. 
For  the  sons  who  went  to  battle 

With  a  proud  and  martial  tread, 
Will  never,  never  more  return 

"  From  the  cities  of  the  dead." 

Every  city,  town  and  village, 

Every  hamlet  of  Northland, 
Sent  from  them  with  waving  banners 

A  fearless,  gallant  band. 
To  battle  for  the  Union, 

"Constitution  and  the  laws" 
By  abolition  "  traitors  "  vile 

Deceived  as  to  the  cause. 

They  heard  the  musket's  rattle, 

The  cannon's  deafening  roar, 
The  sabre's  clash  and  clangor, 

On  Rappahannock's  shore. 
But  they  boldly  faced  the  missiles, 

Rushed  to  their  certain  doom, 
And  were  mowed  down  like  blades  of  grass 
.    In  summer's  ripening  bloom. 

Yet  quiet  flows  the  river, 

As  ever  on  its  way, 
Though  crimsoned  were  its  waters 

By  the  slaughter  of  that  day. 
The  sun  shines  out  as  brightly, 

And  the  moon  and  stars  at  even 
Are  mirrored  on  the  river's  face 

From  calm  blue  skies  of  Heaven. 


286 

But  the  death  groans  of  the  dying, 

The  shrieks  of  mangled  men, 
From  the  banks  of  Rappahannock, 

Echo  thick  o'er  hill  and  glen. 
And  many  a  tender  mother, 

And  many  a  loving  bride, 
And  many  a  gentle  sister  knows 

Her  brave  belov'd  has  died. 

No  more  in  hut  or  palace 

Shall  they  hear  the  dear  one's  tread. 

Deceived,  they  went  to  conquer, 
But  they  sleep  amid  the  dead. 

And  the  name  of  Rappahannock, 
For  marry  a  drear}r  year, 

Will  bring  the  pain  to  breaking  hearts—- 
To darkened  eyes  the  tear. 


O  guileless  Rappahannock  ! 

'Twas  not  thy  gentle  flow 
That  shrouded  many  a  household 

With  the  sable  pall  of  woe. 
'Twas  not  the  crystal  waters, 

From  thy  narrow,  pebbly  bed, 
That  quenched  the  sunlight  in  our  homes 

And  heaped  thy  shores  with  dead. 

'Twas  done  by  Northern  teachers, 

A  Phillips,  Beecher,  Stowe, 
They  spilt  our  brave  ones'  life-blood, 

And  laid  our  dear  ones  low. 
Who,  all  self  righteous,  glory 

Over  that  dreadful  fray, 
While  spirits  of  the  slaughtered  dead 

Call  for  a  reck'ning  day. 


287 

And  certain  as  the  sunlight, 

And  as  the  evening  dew — 
As  certain  as  the  silver  stars 

Shine  in  the  ether  blue — 
As  certain  as  there's  justice 

In  the  balances  of  Heaven, 
So  certain  to  those  guilty  souls 

Will  due  reward  be  given. 

Ye  publishers  and  preachers 

With  valiant  tongue  and  pen — 
Who  have,  so  far,  deluded 

More  brave  and  honest  men — 
How  soon  will  your  own  heart's  blood 

The  full  cup  overflow 
Of  the  red  "  wine  "  the  nation  now 

Is  drinking  to  its  woe  ? 


JOSEPH  AND  F.  D.  FLANDERS. 


Where  are  those  noble  brothers  twain  ? 

Those  freeborn  men — with  freemen's  rig 
Their  place  is  vacant  at  the  board  ; 

Their  presence  glads  not  now  our  sight. 
Their  babes  look  up  through  falling  tears, 

And  ask,  "  Will  father  come  to-day  ? 
What  made  tliem  take  my  father  off? 

How  long  must  father  stay  away  ?  " 


"If  father  can't  come  back,  mamma, 

He'll  want  his  '  little  darling'  there  ; 
lie  might  be  all  alone  and  sick — 

Who  then  of  father  would  take  care  ? 
Perhaps  the  jailor-men  would  let 

Me  go  and  see  my  father  dear  ; 
I'd  run  and  climb  upon  his  knee 

And  never  cry  a  single  tear. 
I'd  kiss  him  for  you  all,  mamma, 

And  do  so  very,  very  right, 
I'm  sure  that  they  would  let  me  stay 

If  you  would  only  say  I  might." 

'Tis  thus  his  youngest,  "black-eyed  one," 

His  little  namesake,  oft  doth  plead. 
Sweet  innocence  I  she  does  not  know 

What  wicked  hearts  did  prompt  the  deed, 
What  cruel  hands  usurped  the  power, 

Without  the  shadow  of  a  right, 
To  tear  her  father  from  his  home, 

And  hide  him  from  her  longing  sight. 


289 


Poor  little  child  !  she  does  not  know 

In  that  black  prison  in  the  sea 
lie's  guarded  by  the  bayonet — 

Nor  given  air  nor  sunlight  free. 
She  does  not  know  no  loving  kiss 

Can  now  be  his,  nor  loving  care — 
But  I  will  teach  our  child  to  pray, 

"  Forgive  them,  Lord,  who  put  him  there." 
1861. 


290 


A  LEADER  OF  THE  REPUBLICAN  PARTY. 

[Respectfully  Dedicated  to  the  Republican  Party,  by 
one  who  feels  herself  and  family  particularly  honored  by 
one  of  its  leaders.] 


Is  his  bed  a  bed  of  roses  ? 

Is  his  conscience  quite  at  ease  ? 
Does  he  feel  to  say  "  Our  Father," 

Praying  on  his  bended  knees  ? 
lias  he  done  his  Christian  duty  ? 

Is  his  country's  cause  maintained  ? 
Does  he  triumph  in  his  laurels — 

In  the  glory  he  has  gained  ? 

Mark  how  placid,  now,  his  visage  ! 

How  benignant  beams  his  eye 
Through  the  patriotic  fires 

That  enroll  his  name  on  high  ! 
See  how  gracious  are  his  manners  ! 

How  majestic  is  his  gait ! 
Made  a  very  god  among  you 

By  his  soul  so  good  and  great ! 

Well,  he's  worthy  of  your  worship  ! 

He's  accomplished  the  great  end  ! 
Your  country  safe,  no  arm  now  needs 

Its  bulwarks  to  defend  ! 
Disband  your  grand  battalions  ! 

Hang  up  the  sword  and  gun  ! 
"The  Boys"  are  sent  to  the  "Bastile," 

The  glorious  victory's  won  ! 


291 


All  !  little  did  we  know  before 

They  held  such  giant  power  ! 
We  knew  they  sought  their  country's  weal 

In  this  dark,  trying  hour  ! 
We  knew  they  fought,  with  'conscience  clear, 

For  Liberty  and  Right ! 
But  little  did  we  dream  how  quailed 

The  Tyrant  at  their  might. 

"Robespierre  and  the  Bastile  !  "  Good  God  ! 

Has  Freedom  come  to  this  ? 
How  do  the  nations  looking  on, 

At  Liberty  now  hiss  ! 
Blot  out  the  page  from  Christendom — 

Hide  !  hide  the  deep  disgrace  ! 
Ye  patriots  true,  gird  on  your  strength 

And  Liberty  replace  ! 

"The  Boys"  are  sent  to  Lafayette — 

How  nobly  did  they  go, 
Leaving  their  homes  and  little  ones — 

Bid  by  their  country's  foe. 
They  neither  cringed  nor  faltered  ; 

But  trusted  in  the  Right, 
Believing  that  a  reckoning  day 

Would  come  with  crushing  might. 

They're  gone  !  and  we  are  proud  to  boast 

Their  manliness  and  worth. 
Nor  shackles,  nor  imprisonment 

Shall  bow  their  souls  to  earth. 
A  holy  faith,  a  perfect  trust 

Their  spirits  will  sustain, 
Till  they  shall  see  their  country  free 

From  War's  inhuman  reign. 
1861. 


292 


HOW  CANST  THOU,  SUN  ! 


How  canst  thou,  Sun,  illuminate  a  land 
Where  Christian  against  Christian  lifts  the  hand 
To  spill  a  brother's  blood,  and  send  the  wail 
Of  widowed  wives  and  orphans  on  the  gale, 
And  drench  anew  our  country's  blood-bought  sod, 
Made  sacred  to  true  hearts  by  Freedom's  God  ! 

April,  thou  month  of  coining  birds  and  flowers, 

How  canst  thou  smile  upon  the  frensied  Powers  !* 

Me  thinks  the  clouds  and  storms  of  March  should  still 

Hang  heavy  o'er  our  every  vale  and  hill. 

Trees  should  not  bud,  nor  blossoms  lift  the  head, 

But  weep  their  life's  juice  out  in  shame  and  dread  ; 

Weep  o'er  our  country  as  a  falling  star 

Whose  beacon-light  is  dimmed  by  shameful  war, 

And  hide  their  bending  heads,  lest  justice  lower 

And  smite  our  land  with  God-avenging  power. 

Shame  to  our  nation  !  shame  to  every  soul 
Who  yields  a  heart  or  hand  to  AVar's  control 
In  Christian  laud — do  we  deserve  the  name 
While  o'er  our  hearts  is  kindling  War's  red  flame  ? 
Wisdom  should  hand  in  hand  with  love  be  joined, 
And  Charity  have  place  in  every  mind, 
Till  he  who  finds  no  "  beam  "  in  his  own  eye 
May  to  his  brother's  "  mote"  the  knife  apply. 

Wives,  mothers,  daughters  have  ye  naught  to  say  ? 
No  voice  to  raise  War's  direful  hand  to  stay  ? 
Think  of  the  horrors  that  will  o'er  you  burst 
If  still  stalks  on  the  bloody  fiend  accurst  ? 

*  Legislators. 


293 

Think  of  your  homes,  your  altars,  and  your  fires  ! 
Think  of  your  children,  husbands,  lovers,  sires  ! 
And  pierce  heavens  concave  with  your  prayers  for  peace 
Till  God  shall  bid  the  raging  billows  cease. 
1861. 


A  PRAYER. 


O  God  !  O  God  !  in  pity  haste,  look  down, 

Thy  flaming  sword  withdraw — cease  Thou  to  frown 

Upon  us  sorely  sinful.     Turn  to  Thee 

Our  smitten  hearts,  and  make  us  bend  the  knee 

In  humble  penitence  and  grief  for  sin, 

Till  we  forgiveness  from  thy  spirit  win. 

Pity  !  O  pity  Thou  !  the  suffering  souls 
Upon  our  Southern  land  where  Battle  rolls 
Its  horrors,  like  the  drenching,  drowning  flood 
That  devastated  earth  when  none  served  God 
Save  Noah  and  his  little  household  band. 
Are  there  not  many  Noah's  in  our  land  ? 
"  If,  peradventurc,  there  be  righteous  five," 
Turn  from  thine  anger — let  our  country  live — 
And  bid  those  " righteous"  preach  Thy  Truth  in  love, 
Till  they  to  serve  Thee  erring  hearts  shall  move, 
And  Hate  be  banished — nevermore  to  come 
And  desolate  a  North  or  Southern  home- 
Till  from  all  nations  War  shall  driven  be, 
And  every  soul  bend,  true  to  Thee,  the  knee  ; 
Each  prizing  other  as  themselves  they  prize, 
Making  this  earth  again  a  Paradise. 


294 

Pity  !  O  pity,  God  !  our  country  dear — 
We  fain  would  make  all  Heaven  our  prayer  to  hear, 
And  with  our  cries  persuade  the  angel  bands 
To  come  and  dasli  the  sword  from  brother's  hands, 
And  plant  the  Olive  Branch  on  hill  and  lea, 
And  nourish  it  till  over  land  and  sea 
Its  branches  interlace  like  brooding  wing, 
And  Peace  o'er  earth  in  jubilates  ring. 
O  God  !  O  God  !  pity  the  mourners  here, 
And  homeless  ones,  and  take  them  in  Thy  cure, 
Who  'neath  a  Southern  sun  have  felt  the  blow 
Of  vengeful  War,  and  drank  its  dregs  of  woe. 
1802. 


295 


WHERE  ARE  THEY  ? 


The  Northern  sun,  with  warmer,  genial  ray. 

Dissolves  the  snow — 

and  shrubs  shoot  fortl 

While  soft  winds  bkn 

returned  from  Southe 

Flit  to  and  fro, 
And  sing  the  same  sweet,  cheerful  songs  they  sang 

Twelve  months  ago. 


*/   J 

Dissolves  the  snow — 
The  trees  and  shrubs  shoot  forth  their  living  green, 

While  soft  winds  blow  ; 
The  birds  returned  from  Southern,  sunny  climes, 

Flit  to  and  fro, 


But  where  are  they — the  friends  ye  prized  so  dear  ? 

A  year  ago 
Ye  waited  not,  as  now,  their  coining  feet 

With  heart-beat  slow  ; 
Will  they  return  from  pillaged  Southern  lands, 

Where  red  waves  flow, 
With  hands  as  spotless  of  a  brother's  blood 

As  unstained  snow  ? 

Or  do  their  loved  forms  sleep  upon  the  plain 

Where  clarions  peal — 
Their  breasts  laid  open  by  the  ghastly  wounds 

Of  warrior's  steel — 
With  spirits  freed,  awaiting  Heaven's  doom  ? 

For  God  is  just — 
Away  !  away  !  dark  thoughts — our  senses  reel. 

Poor  mourners — Tiiistf 


A  SINGLE  INSTANCE  OF    McNEIL'S  INHUMAN- 
ITY RELATED  IN  VERSE. 

[McNeil,   a    general  in  the    Federal  Army,   1862-'68 
shot  ten  men  in  his  anger  because  a  man  by  the  name  of' 
Alleman  had  run  away  from  his  power.] 


A  noble,  manly  boy  was  he, 

Some  nine  or  ten  years  old — 
An  only  child — who  pleading  went 

Brave,  earnest,  yet  not  bold — 
To  one  with  heart  of  adamant, 

His  father's  life  to  spare — 
His  father — one  of  those  ten  doomed 

Death-punishment  to  bear 
For  one  who  voluntary  strayed 

From  far  Missouri  State. 
One  Alleman,  safely  since  returned, 

Alas  !  indeed,  too  late 
To  save  those  guiltless  men,  condemned 

Like  felons,  to  be  shot, 
By  that  inhuman  murderer 

Whose  very  name  is  fraught 
With  everything  of  evil  kind 

That  brings  a  curse  to  earth. 
Whose  soul,  if  such  he  do  possess, 

In  lower  realms  had  birth. 
That  little,  noble,  manly  boy, 

Entreated,  begged,  implored, 
"My  father  !  Oh  my  father  spare  ! 

We'll  give  our  sacred  word — 
Mother  and  I — that  father  ne'er 

For  one  whole  month  or  more, 
Had  been  from  home  the  night  when  came 

Your  soldiers  to  our  door, 
And  took  my  father  off  by  force 

And  bore  him  to  your  jail  ; 
And  left  dear  mother  sick  in  bed 


297 


So  sad,  and  weak,  and  pale  ; 
Oh,  if  you  do  my  father  kill 

What  shall  we  ever  do  ? 
I  am  too  young  to  earn  our  bread — 

And  we'll  be  lonely,  too. 
My  father  is  so  very  kind, 

He  never  did  one  harm — 
And  he  had  worked  so  long  and  hard 

To  buy  our  little  farm — 
And  he  was  going  to  build  a  house, 

Our  own  to  always  be. 
Oh,  please  do  let  my  father  live 

For  mother  dear  and  me.1 
O  sir,  do  let  my  father  live 

Till  I  am  grown  a  man, 
Then  I  will  work  and  earn  our  bread — 

Dear  mother  says  I  can. 
We  have  no  friends  to  help  us,  sir, 

No  kindred,  near  have  we  ; 
They  all  arc  poor,  or  far  away 

Beyond  the  distant  sea. 
Oh,  if  you  do  my  father  kill, 

My  mother's  heart  will  break. 
O  sir,  do  let  my  father  live 

For  my  poor  mothers  sake.'1'' 
Thus  plead  the  manly,  tearful  boy, 

But  plead  and  plead  in  vain. 
"  Beside  his  father  he  might  ride, 

In  the  funereal  train — 
Upon  his  coffin  to  the  place 

Where  those  ten  men  must  die  " 
The  monster  deigned  consent  to  give. 

And  he  went  riding  by 
Clasped  in  his  father's  loving  arms 

Which  did  so  close  enfold 
That  when  the  doomed  "  were  formed  in  line 

'Twcre  hard  to  loose  their  hold. 
And  when  his  father's  loved  remains 


298 

Within  the  coffin  lay, 
That  little  boy  with  breaking  heart 

Rode  from  the  scene  away, 
Upon  the  rough-hewn  burial  box, 

That  hid  from  his  young  eyes 
The  form  he  never  more  would  sec 

This  side  the  weeping  skies. 
Sad  tale  of  War,  but  thousands  worse, 

Ne'er  sung  by  mortal  lyre, 
Recorded  are  in  Heaven's  Archives 

By  Angel's  pen  of  fire. 


VALLAKDIGHAM. 

[It  will  not  appear  singular  to  many  that  I  sympathised 
with  Mr.  Vallandigham,  since  Mr.  Flanders,  my  husband, 
had  been  previously  sent  to  Forts  Lafayette  and  Warren. 
Written  immediately  after  hearing  of  Vallandigham's 
wicked  arrest,  under  Abraham  Lincoln,  on  the  fourth  or 
fifth  of  May,  1863.] 


They  came,  like  cowards  as  they  were,  at  night, 
And  stole  the  father  from  his  precious  fold — 

The  people's  Champion  of  Truth  and  Right — 
Vallandigham,  the  honest  and  the  bold. 

They  dare  not  venture  on  a  deed  so  base 

When  men  were  wakeful — 'neath  the  sun's  bright  eye, 
But  shrank  with  guilty  fear  the  hosts  to  face, 

Who  ready  stood  to  shield  their  Chief  or  die. 

But  they  were  seen — the  stars  in  heaven's  height 
Espied  the  lawless,  miscreant,  hireling  crowd, 

And  grieved  and  shamed  they  hastened  from  the  sight, 
And  hid  their  shining  faces  'neath  a  shroud. 

And  the  fair,  queenly  moon  that  sailed  on  high, 
As  she  looked  down  upon  that  fiendish  crew 

Paled  at  the  sight,  and  veiled  her  silvery  eye 
Behind  the  clouds  that  darkened  at  the  view. 

Yes,  they  were  seen — above,  afar,  beyond, 
Sat  one  with  portent  brow,  that  woful  night. 

Nor  distance,  nor  did  darkness  prove  a  bond 
To  shut  Ills  vision  from  that  shameful  sight. 

Vallandigham  !  the  God  whom  thou  dost  serve, 

For  every  ill  the  tyrant  heaps  on  thre, 
11  His  red  right  arm"  with  vengeance  dire  will  nerve, 

To  smite  the  foes  of  Right  and  Liberty  ! 


300 


Yallandigliam,  wise,  noble,  brave  and  good, 

Honored  of  all  whose  hearts  round  Freedom  twine 

We'd  sooner  make  thy  garb,  unstained  by  blood, 
Our  God,  than  yield  one  nod  at  Lincoln's  shrine. 

True  Friends  of  Liberty  !  how  long  will  ye, 
Supine,  be  trampled  'neath  the  tyrant's  heel  ? 

Freeborn  !  Freebred  !  why  bend  the  servile  knee  ? 
Up  !  gird  your  loins  with  the  avenging  steel ! 

The  People's  favorite  son  from  home  is  torn, 
Because,  forsooth,  he  sought  his  country's  good  ; 

And  to  some  secret  prison  vilely  borne  ; 
Rescue  your  chief,  ye  patriot  brotherhood  I 


301 
PEACE. 


"Peace  !"  "Hist!" 

"Whisper  it  low." 
"Peace!"  "Peace!" 

"Beware  of  the  foe, 
For  war  He  is  shrieking, 

For  blood  and  for  death." 
"Peace!"  "Peace!" 

"  Friend,  stifle  your  breath — 
Bastilcs  are  wide  yawning 

And  spies  prowl  anear — 
To  some  of  earth's  noblest 

That  word  has  proved  dear. 
'Tis  *  treason  '  to  speak  it, 

On  Freedom's  proud  sod  ; 
v  Peace '  you  must  whisper 

In  your  closet  to  God." 


But  "Peace  !"  blessed  "Peace  !" 

I  will  cry  thee  aloud 
Though  "  bastiles  are  yawning  " — 

Or  though  in  Death's  shroud 
I  should  pay  such  temerity. 

Would  on  hill-top,  in  vale 
I  could  tell  to  the  people 

Half  of  War's  bloody  tale, 
For  then  would  a  cry 

Like  a  wild  surging  main 
Sweep  over  our  land — 

"  Peace"  would  be  the  refrain. 

"Peace!"  "Hist!"  "whisper  low, 

Never,  no  never, 
I'll  not  bow  to  the  foe. 

'Tis  a  word  come  from  Heaven— 


302 

Sweeter  far  to  my  lips 

Than  the  nectarine  draught 
One  from  Helicon  sips. 

Sing  it  ye  zephyrs, 
Waft  it  winds,  near  and  far  ; 

Shout  it  ye  people, 
Till  the  spirits  of  war 

Flee  back  to  their  dens — 
Hades  gates  are  ajar. 

"  Peace  !  "  precious  word  that  our  lov'd  Savior  breathed, 
"  Peace  !  "  never  War  to  His  saints  He  bequeathed — 
On  our  white  Christian  banner  be  the    golden  word 

wreathed. 
1863. 


303 


VALLANDIGHAM,  AFTER  HAYING  BEEN 
EXILED. 


Exiled  from  his  home,  but  with  soul  pure  and  high, 
His  step  is  as  firm,  and  the  glance  of  his  eye 
As  keen  as  when  erst  a  proud  freeman  he  trod 
On  Liberty's  soil  in  the  smile  of  his  God. 

But  Liberty  wounded  and  bleeding  lies  low, 
And  freemen  now  bow  at  the  beck  of  her  foe, 
Or  if  they  dare  breathe  e'en  with  low,  bated  breath 
A  word  in  her  favor — Prison  !  Exile  !  or  Death  ! 

Thus  he  who  fought  bravest  and  best  in  her  cause, 
Whose  tongue  wisest  plead  for  the  "Union  and  laws," 
Swerving  never  from  right,  uncondemned  of  a  wrong, 
Is  banished  his  state  by  a  ribaldrous  throng. 

But  Liberty  soon  will  be  healed  of  her  smarts, 
And  again  rear  her  throne  in  the  people's  warm  hearts, 
And  the  exile  returned,  on  his  loved  soil  shall  stand, 
With  new  honors  crowned  by  her  liberal  hand. 

For  Liberty  knows  how  her  martyrs  to  pay, 
Who  strove  for  her  weal  in  the  heat  of  the  fray, 
When  herfoemen  came  forth,  like  an  avalanche  hurled, 
Her  bulwarks  to  break — once  the  hope  of  the  world. 

Ohio  !  Ohio  !  proud  Star  of  the  West, 
Come  out  from  the  clouds  in  your  late  splendor  drest, 
If  manhood  and  might  still  inherit  your  sod, 
Never  kneel,  never  bow  but  to  Right  and  to  God. 

Recall  the  lone  exile,  Ohio — e'en  now 

You've  a  laurel  that  waits  to  encircle  his  brow. 

Betray  not  your  trust — be  strong  in  your  might, 

On  your  ensign  be  blazoned  "  My  God  and  my  Right." 


304 


Delay  not,  Ohio,  but  speed  to  restore 

To  her  own  sacred  temple  your  Goddess  of  yore. 

And  never  again  let  your  ensign  be  trailed 

Or  torn  by  the  foe  who  your  rights  have  assailed. 

Be  constant  on  guard  with  an  eye  eagle-like, 
With  an  arm  bared  in  Liberty's  honor  to  strike. 
And  level  to  earth  the  base,  impious  breast, 
Who  shall  dare  in  the  future  her  peace  to  molest. 

Dimmed  Star  of  the  West,  make  haste  to  reclaim 
From  cowardice'  stigma  your  once  honored  name — 
This  covenant  bind  you — come  woe  or  come  weal, 
To  never  a  tyrant  til  death  will  ice  kneel. 
JUKE,  1863. 


305 


LINES  REFERRING  TO  MRS.  VALLANDIGHAM. 

'  [Having  been  reported  insane  on  account  of  the  severe  imprisonment 
ol  her  husband,  and  in  her  insanity  raved  of  him  dead.] 


Take  back  the  words  !  Take  back  the  words  ! 

Too  sad,  too  dire  to  be  believed. 
I  sicken  at  the  woful  tale — 

My  brain  near  reels — my  soul  is  grieved 
So  deeply  that  by  day  and  night 

A  woman  pale,  and  worn,  and  wild 
Haunts  all  my  mind,  and  makes  me  weep 

Till  I  am  weak  as  any  child. 

Take  back  the  words  !  Take  back  the  words  ! 

They  blind,  they  burn  my  eyes,  to  read. 
One  loving,  beautiful  and  good 

To  buffer  thus — Oh  wretched  deed  ! 
Sweet  clinging  vine  torn  from  her  prop, 

Insane  to  wail  and  droop  and  die. 
O  God  !  O  God  !  upon  whose  soul 

Must  such  great  guilt  forever  lie  ? 

Take  back  the  words  !  Take  back  the  words  ! 

That  she,  Ms  lov'd  is  maniac. 
The  news  will  rend  his  strong  heart's  chords 

More  torturing  they  than  sorest  rack 
That  blackest  despot  did  invent — 

Than  wildest  fancy  can  portray — 
If  true,  Oh  hide  from  him  the  fact, 

Till  reason's  light  resumes  its  sway. 

Take  back  the  words  !  Take  back  the  words  ! 

Tell  us  the  tale  is  all  untrue — 
Or  if  she  were  of  reason  reft — 

That  she's  regained  her  reason  now. 


I  wait  and  watch  and  pray  to  raad 

"  The  story  false  "  that  sears  my  brain. 

Oh,  say  she  knows  Tie  is  not  dead 
But  looks  to  meet  him  soon  again. 

Take  back  the  words  !  Take  back  the  words  ! 

They  tell  too  true  "  what  might  have  been," 
Had  soldiers  in  the  calm  of  night 

Stole  on  us  with  the  frightful  din 
Of  horrid  implements  of  Death 

When  he,  our  stay,  by  lawless  hand 
Was  rudely  torn  from  home  and  friends, 

And  freedom  in  his  native  land. 
1863. 


307 


MY  COUNTRY. 


My  Country  !  My  Country  !  though  humble  and  sore, 
Though  now  thou  art  bleeding  at  each  vein  and  pore, 
There  is  joy  for  thee  yet — for  thy  brow  a  bright  crown, 
And  nations  shall  envy  thy  future  renown. 

My  Country,  My  Country,  thou  pride  of  my  soul, 
Though  storm-winds  have  raged  with  no  hand  to  control, 
And  have  rocked  thee,  as  rock  they  the  ship  on  the  main, 
Thy  travail  in  sorrow  shall  not  prove  in  vain. 

Behind  darkest  of  clouds  shine  the  brightest  of  suns — 
And  deep  shadows  fall  on  tho  streamlet  that  runs 
In  the  greenest,  the  loveliest,  sunniest  dell, 
Where  summer  birds  warble,  and  mortal  men  dwell. 

But  the  clouds  disappear,  and  the  earth  smiles  again, 
More  fragrant  and  fresh  from  the  torrents  of  rain, 
And  the  shadows  that  darkened  the  streamlet  are  gone — 
And  the  birds'  songs  are  sweet  as  their  matins  at  dawn. 

My  Country,  My  Country,  there  is  One  reigneth  still, 
Whom  "  Heloveth  He  chastens  "  as  He  wisely  doth  will, 
And  thou  from  the  furnace,  like  gold  that  is  tried, 
Shall  brighter  beam  forth  from  thy  dross  purified. 

Freedom's  fires  shall  again  burn  in  fane,  hall  and  cot — 
As  erst  they  were  wont  in  thy  happier  lot, 
When  the  people  were  sovereigns,  when  by  no  despot  hand 
A  sceptre  was  swayed  o'er  our  Heaven-blest  land. 

My  Country,  My  Country,  thou  art  loved  next  to  God — 
Though  man's  blood  has  reddened  thy  Emerald  sod, 
'Till  faith  has  been  palsied,  we'll  wake  from  the  spell. 
And  hope  till  thy  watchmen  shall  cry,  "  All  is  well." 


My  Country,  My  Country,  there  is  joy  for  thee  yet, 
Thy  sun  with  its  glory  now  dimmed  is  not  set — 
And  the  kingdoms  of  earth  that  rejoice  o'er  thy  woe, 
Shall  bow  at  thy  feet  when  their  pride  is  laid  low. 
JUNE,  1863. 


ONE  OF  THE  FRUITS  OF  BATTLE. 


The  war  came  on,  and  thousands  left  the  plow 
And  anvil  for  the  Southern  tented  field — 
Willie,  my  manly  boy,  my  bright  brow'd  one 
To  join  them  sought  of  me  consent  to  yield. 

Vainly  he  plead — I  thought  no  duty  called 
My  child  to  wander  from  my  side  away — 
And  to  my  simple  mind  no  glory  sprang 
From  man  essaying  brother  man  to  slay. 

But  martial  music  stirred  the  young  heart's  blood, 
And  crafty  men  allured  him  from  my  side  ; 
Nor  parting  word  nor  parting  kiss  he  gave — 
Alas  !  'twere  best  my  darling  boy  had  died . 

Days,  weeks  and  months  passed  by — no  tidings  came 
Of  Willie,  to  his  mother's  longing  ears  ; 
Days,  weeks  and  months  rose  hopes  of  his  return, 
As  oft  dispelled  by  agonizing  fears. 


Fall,  Winter  and  a  part  of  Spring  were  gone- 
Lonely  I  sat,  when  hark  !  rtlethought  a  sound 
Of  dear,  familiar  voice  !  but  laggard  step  ! 
I  could  not  stir — my  limbs  seemed  fetter-bound. 


309 


A  hand  was  on  the  latch — 'twas  not  liis  hand — 
Another  led  my  "Willie  to  the  door  ; 
They  entered — pitying  Heaven  !  my  senses  fled 
And  swooning,  prostrate  fell  I  on  the  floor. 

I  woke — but  Oh,  'twas  agony  to  wake — 
My  bright-eyed  Willie  blind,  lame,  scarred,  and  wan, 
His  manly  form  bent  as  by  weight  of  years — 
Such,  War  returned  the  widow's  only  son. 

And  now  with  shattered  mind,  and  blasted  frame, 

Life  is  to  him  a  blank — a  darkling  night, 

The  pleasant  sun  and  all  it  smiles  upon, 

No  more  can  cheer  his  soul  or  bless  his  sight. 

And  /,  Ids  mother  !    Mothers  of  our  land, 
How  many  anguish  know,  so  darkly  given, 
Not  in  God's  works  your  light  of  life  put  out, 
But  on  the  blood-red  field  where  men  have  striven. 


310 


PESTILENCE. 


Come  on  ye  men,  with  pick  and  spade, 
Thousands  of  graves  'tis  time  were  made, 
For  thousands  'neath  a  Southern  sky 
Of  brothers  slain  in  battle  lie. 

Haste  ye,  dig  quick,  no  time  to  spare — 
Decaying  bodies  scent  the  air — 
Lest  Pestilence  shall  soon  walk  forth, 
And  other  thousands  fell  to  earth. 

Throw  in  a  corpse  !  more  haste — another — 
Heap  high  the  dirt  on  friend  and  brother — 
Here  !  there  !  with  bodies  fill  the  trench. 
Too  slow  !  too  late  !    The  poisonous  stench 
Has  filled  the  atmosphere  with  death — 
Corruption  taints  our  every  breath. 
Disease  outvies  the  sword  and  ball, 
Smites  with  its  power  both  great  and  small. 
The  rich,  the  poor,  the  simple,  wise, 
The  sinful,  sinless,  by  it  dies. 
Speed  faster,  then,  with  spade  and  pick. 
More  graves  we  need — dig  deep,  dig  quick, 
Throw  in  the  corpse  of  sister,  brother, 
Of  husband,  wife,  of  father,  mother, 
And  nestling  babe  with  prattling  tongue  ; 
The  plague  respects  ne'er  old  nor  young, 
But  follows  in  the  war-god's  train, 
And  more  by  it  than  Mars  are  slain. 
Scoop  then  the  mould,  throw  in  the  dead. 
Not  on  the  battle-field  these  bled, 


311 


But  Pestilence  from  gory  sod 

Walked  forth  a  scourge  from  Christians'  God 

Who  looks  in  anger  from  the  skies 

Upon  War's  bestial  sacrifice  ! 

Alas  !  alas  !  at  what  dire  cost 

Is  victory  gained  or  victory  lost 

When  men  with  brothers  warring  go  ? 

The  very  heavens  are  palled  in  woe  ; 

For  wails  from  hearts  by  anguish  rent 

In  volumes  pierce  the  firmament, 

And  pitying  angels  hear  and  weep 

That  Death  such  carnival  should  keep. 


812 


THE  OLD  NEGRO'S  LAMENT. 


Before  this  dreadful  war  I'd  a  pleasant,  happy  home 

On  the  banks  of  a  clear,  shining  river, 
Where  no  wintry  winds  did  blow,  and  fell  no  chilling 
snow 

To  make  these  rag-clad  limbs  ache  and  shiver. 

Before  this  dreadful  war  I'd  a  pleasant,  happy  home 
In  a  cottage,  with  a  wife  and  children  near  me, 

With  a  master  ever  kind,  I'd  no  word  of  fault  to  find, 
For  want  nor  sorrow  ever  enteied  near  me. 

Now,  since  this  dreadful  war  I've  no  place  to  rest  my 
head, 

And  sorrow  has  my  health  and  reason  shattered, 
My  wife  of  want  has  died,  and  my  children  far  and  wide 

Over  the  earth,  I  know  not  where,  are  scattered. 

Now,  since  this  dreadful  war  I  no  more  can  happy  live 
In  a  cottage  by  the  clear  and  shining  river  ; 

Driven  by  a  vandal  band  from  my  sunny  Southern  land, 
My  bed  the  chilling  snow,  I  shake  and  quiver. 

Now,  since  this  dreadful  war  I've  a  master  kind  no  more, 
From  my  wife  and  children  parted  here  forever, 

I,  impatient,  wait  to  go  where  no  wintry  winds  do  blow, 
And  war,  and  want,  and  sorrow  enter  never. 

Aye,  but  this  dreadful  war  made   me  freeman  while  I 
live, 

Free  to  wander,  free  to  starve  and  ache  and  shiver, 
Free  to  die  without  a  friend,  and  moan  till  life  shall  end, 

And  curse — no,  Heaven  forgive  my  freedom  giver. 


313 


LINES  SUGGESTED  BY  READING  THE  PETITION 
OF  THE  LADIES  OF  THE  SHENANDOAH 
VALLEY,  ASKING  PARDON  FOR  JEFFERSON 
DAVIS. 


Pardon  for  him?    "What  sinning  hath  he  done  ? 

He  of  the  lofty  brow  and  soulful  eye  ? 
This  wise,  this  noble,  much-loved  Southron  son  ? 

Pardon  for  him  you  ask  ?  in  sooth,  for  why  ? 

Was't  wrong  to  take  the  Northman  at  his  word  ? 

To  heed  the  taunts  flung  in  his  manly  face  ? 
Tke  dire  "expense,"  the  "  ignorant,  uncouth  herd  "  ?  * 

The  "  blot  "  that  brought  his  ensign  to  disgrace  ? 

Was't  wrong  to  side  'gainst  Wrong  though  "  Right"  might 
fail  ? 

Wrong,  when  the  tyrant's  minions  southward  pour'd, 
To  use  his  utmost  powers — might  they  avail — 

Backward  to  drive  th'  invading,  hireling  horde  ? 

Was't  wrong  to  worship  at  sweet  Freedom's  shrine  ? 

To  cling  to  memories  of  her  Washington  ? 
Within  his  heart  his  teachings  to  entwine, 

And  do  as  did  our  Country's  sainted  one  ? 

Pardon  for  Mm?  kind  Heaven,  stoop  down  and  show 

The  Christian  tenet  teaching  us  to  pray 
The  Injurer's  pardon  for  the  Injured,  who 

Sinned  only  that  he  could  not  "  win  the  day" 


314 


Dear  sisters  of  the  stricken  Southern  land, 
Our  hearts  in  sympathy  with  yours  do  bleed  ; 

Hope  lured  us  with  her  fair  and  beckoning  hand 
'Till  Fortune  fled  you  in  your  greatest  need. 

But  for  7m  pardon  we  were  loth  .to  sue — 
Justice  alone  should  set  the  prisoner  free  ! 

Demanding  justice  we  would  join  with  you, 
Each  State  a  sovereignty — all  sovereigns  we. 

But  hist  !  we  did  forget  us — times  are  changed  ! 

Our  birthright,  too,  is  trampled  deep  in  dust  ; 
For  we  are  ruled  per  force  by  minds  deranged, 

Who've  trait'rous  proved  to  Liberty's  fair  trust. 

And  on  her  pedestal  have  placed  a  god 

For  us  to  worship — woe  betide  the  soul, 
When  his  black  "curls  "  he  "  shakes  and  gives  the  nod," 

Who  dares  ignore  His  Mightiness'  control  ! 


But  shall  we  bow  ?  or  as  our  fathers,  serve 
Right,  Reason,  Justice,  Liberty  and  Law  ? 

And  like  good  Daniel,  ne'er  a  hair-breadth  swerve 
Though  "  lions"  face  us  with  a  ravenous  maw  ! 

Alas  !  the  quivering  flesh  by  torturing  rack, 

From  agony  will  oft  be  forced  to  yield, 
And  Wrong  will  trample  Truth  and  Right,  alack  ! 

'Till  Heaven  comes  down  and  holds  her  vanquished 
field. 

*  Words  flung  at  the  Southern  people. 

JANUARY,  1866. 


315 


TO  THEE,  HIBERNIA. 


Fair  Islet,  enclasped  by  the  ocean, 

More  marked  by  a  tyrannous  power 
Than  thy  shores  by  the  lashing  commotion 

Of  waves  since  Creation's  first  hour — 
I'm  longing  to  hear  the  glad  tidings, 

"Erin's  burst  the  oppressors'  hard  chains," 
As  an  unweaned  child  yearns  for  its  mother — 

For  Irish  blood  runs  in  my  veins.x 

Fair  Islet,  enclasped  by  the  ocean, 

"Would  the  day  of  thy  bondage  were  o'er, 
And  Liberty's  pinions  in  motion, 

Did  rest  on  thy  surf-beaten  shore  ; 
Did  brood  o'er  thy  lakelets  and  rivers, 

Thy  hills  and  sweet  emerald  plains  ; 
Then  with  rapture  I'd  shout  at  thy  triumph — 

For  Irish  blood  runs  in  my  veins. 

Fair  Islet,  enclasped  by  the  ocean, 

Of  heroes  and  orators  sage, 
Who  loved  thee  with  purest  devotion 

Enstoried  on  history's  page — 
I'll  pray  with  thy  patriot  daughters, 

And  join  in  the  lyrical  strains 
Of  Erin,  the  gem  of  the  waters — 

For  Irish  blood  runs  in  my  veins. 

Fair  Islet,  thou  brightest  and  dearest, 

With  thy  "  Sunburst "  just  out  of  the  sea — 
May  thy  "  Harp  "  be  re-tuned  to  sweet  music, 

And  sing  of  the  peaceful  and  free  ! 
May  thy  beauteous  flag  float  in  glory, 

Where  Virtue  with  Liberty  reigns  ; 
And  /live  to  tell  the  proud  story — 

For  Irish  blood  runs  in  my  veins. 


316 


O  Erin,  mavourneen,  forever  ! 

Would  the  shades  of  thy  martyrs  might  rise., 
And  lead  on  thy  warriors  to  conquer, 

'Till  victory's  shouts  rend  the  skies  ! 
Till  back  o'er  the  sea  thy  despoiler, 

All  vanquished  has  fled  in  dismay, 
Like  a  storm-driven  wreck  on  the  billows, 

When  hurricanes  revel  at  play. 

O  Erin,  mavourneen,  forever  ! 

May  thy  time  of  redemption  be  near, 
And  the  sunlight  of  freedom  smile  on  thee, 

Till  mountains  and  vales  disappear  — 
May  now  at  thy  bosom  be  nursing 

The  heroes  who'll  win  thee  a  crown — 
And  the  evergreen  laurel  be  growing 

For  poets  who'll  hymn  thy  renown. 

O  Erin,  mavourneen,  forever  ! 

Warm  friends  here,  low  kneeling  for  thee, 
Daily  cry  to  the  Power  Supernal 

To  set  loved  Hibernia  free. 
May  the  clank  of  thy  chains  long  unriven, 

The  wails  of  thy  children  in  woe, 
Ere  long,  move  a  pitying  Heaven, 

The  guerdon  thus  sought  to  bestow. 
SPUING  OF  186-. 


317 


TO  ENGLAND. 


Does  Britain's  Lion  lash  his  sides 

In  wrath,  and  shake  his  mane, 
When  he  hears  the  Eagle's  shrilly  voice 

Come  o'er  the  watery  plain  ? 
And  does  he  strive  with  angry  growl 

The  glorious  bird  to  fright, 
Lest  on  the  soil  of  Ireland 

Ere  long  'twill  dare  alight. 

And  does  he,  rampant,  seek  to  catch 

This  bird  with  wings  full  spread, 
And  crush  her  'neath  his  heavy  paw 

Till  Freedom's  hopes  lie  dead  ? 
Till  England's  slaves  in  all  things  else 

"Except  in  name"  and  spirit, 
Shall  no  more  dare  to  strive  for  Rights 

Which  Freedom's  sons  inherit  ? 

Is  he  so  greedy  of  his  prey 

111  gotten  and  ill  held  ? 
And  does  he  fear  the  hastening  day 

When  Erin,  as  of  eld, 
From  every  nook  beneath  her  skies, 

From  mountain,  dell  and  river, 
Shall  start  to  arms  in  martial  mood 

His  galling  bonds  to  shiver  ? 

Oh,  England  !  England  !  well  thou  ken'st 

Thy  Lion  hates  the  Eagle, 
And  gladlier  would  hunt  her  down 

Than  timid  hare  the  beagle — 
Had  he  but  power  to  break  her  wing 

And  wring  her  neck,  she,  never, 
O'er  any  soil  thy  thought  has  trod 

Would  soar  again,  forever. 


318 

Yet  as  we  gaze  on  Albion  proud 

Far  over  the  great  water, 
We  think  we  see  her  pale  and  quake 

With  fear  of  coming  slaughter  ; 
For  Christian  palm  she  will  not  wave, 

But  dares,  in  dread  the  fury 
Of  marshaled  hosts  in  righteous  cause, 

With  Heaven  as  Judge  and  Jury. 

Oh,  England  !  England  !  feel'st  thou  not 

Thy  throne  begin  to  tremble  ? 
"  The  writing  on  the  wall "  methinks 

Thy  pride  cannot  dissemble — 
For  "in  the  balance  thou  art  weighed," 

And  "Wanting"  is  the  sentence 
In  all  things  save  self-righteousness, 

Which  keeps  thee  from  repentance. 

Oh,  England  !  England  !  had'st  thou  seer- 

Would'st  heed  the  darkling  vision  ? 
Or  would'st  thou,  like  the  proud  Lochiel, 

But  scorn  it  with  derision  ? 
Beware  !  beware  !  lest  soon  thou  find'st 

Some  prophet  truth  hast  spoken — 
By  Erin's  arms,  by  Erin's  sons, 

Thy  sceptre  shall  lie  broken. 
FEBRUARY,  1866. 


319 


MY  COUNTRY. 

[After  the  Veto— February,  1866.] 


My  Country,  take  heart  !  for  a  day -beam  is  shining, 

Through  a  rift  in  the  blackness  that  shroudeth  thee  o'er  ; 

Perchance  the  dark  clouds  have  a  silvery  lining, 

And  bright  as  of  erst  are  thy  days  yet  in  store — 

My  Country,  take  heart !  though  each  city  and  hamlet 

Has  yielded  her  sons  to  the  Demon  of  War — 

Though  thousands  of  widows  and  orphans  are  wailing, 

Sore-crushed  by  the  roll  of  the  Juggernaut  car  ; 

And  though  other  thousands  still  smart  from  oppression, 

That  closely  has  followed  red  Mars'  bloody  wake  ; 

And  wildfire  fanatics  have  prospered  in  treason, 

Till  we  feel  the  last  vestige  of  Freedom  at  stake — 

Up  beyond  the  thick  pall,  a  clear  sun  may  be  shedding 

Its  rays  to  dispel  the  thick  gloom  o'er  thee  cast, 

Until  Liberty,  Peace  and  Prosperity  bless  thee, 

It  may  be,  as  long  as  God's  footstool  shall  last — 

My  Country,  take  heart !  for  there  seems  at  the  helm  now 

One  powerful  to  steer  thy  ship  safe  into  port. 

It  must  be  a  task  for  the  boldest  of  seamen, 

So  long  has  it  been  of  rude  tempests  the  sport  ; 

But  if,  as  he  swore  to,  he  follows  the  compass, 

And  swerves  not  a  line  from  the  course  it  points  out, 

He'll  surely  pass  soon  all  the  dangerous  quicksands, 

Charybdis  and  Scylla  leaving  far  in  the  route. 

Then  will  thy  proud  eagle  come  again  from  her  eyrie, 

On  the  far  mountain  crag,  where  she  fled  in  disgust, 

That  her  broad  wings  may  shelter  forever  a  people 

Whose  vigilant  watch  is  the  price  of  their  trust. 

Aye,  then  will  thy  Washington's  spirit,  returning 

To  the  land  of  his  birth,  of  his  love  and  his  toils, 

Be  a  guardian  saint  with  the  sages  whose  teachings 

Thy  mad  rulers  spurned  for  impolitic  broils. 


320 

Aye,  then  will  thy  shore  be  again  the  glad  refuge 
Of  children  oppressed  in  the  lands  o'er  the  sea  ; 
A  Beacon,  a  Day-star,  an  Edenland  envied, 
Of  peoples  and  kingdoms — the  land  of  the  Free  ! 
My  Country,  take  heart  !  for  a  greater  than  mortal, 
Who  chastens,  betimes  all  the  world  for  its  good 
May  yet  look  in  love  down  from  Heaven's  far  portal, 
And  crown  with  His  blessings  thy  famishing  brood. 
Thou  hast  sinned,  greatly  sinned,  and  thy  record  is  written 
Too  deeply  in  blood  for  long  years  to  efface — 
But  Pardon,  the  offspring  of  Mercy  and  Heaven, 
Gives  sinners,  repentant,  beneficent  grace. 


321 


ANOTHER  NOTE  OF  JOY  ! 

[Occasioned  by  the  President's  speech,  February  22, 1866.] 


Good  God  !  be  thanked  that  we  can  breathe  once  more 
One  breath  of  freedom  on  our  native  shore  ! 
Dear  native  shore,  that  with  despotic  sway 
Hath  for  so  long  been  ruled,  there's  joy  to-day  1 

Oh,  'tis  a  joy  to  draw  in  such  sweet  breath, 
After  so  long  respiring  fumes  of  death  ! 
To  see  one  shining  star  in  skies  of  night, 
After  such  darkness  as  has  vailed  their  light  ! 

'Tis  an  Aurora  to  the  sin-sick  eye 

That  weeps  our  country's  woes  of  deepest  dye — 

An.  almost  daybreak  to  the  longing  heart 

That  sighed  and  prayed  for  night-time  to  depart. 

It  is — it  is  a  beam  which  does  remind 
Of  other  days,  when  Fortune  served  us  kind — 
Ere  guiltless  souls  thick  prison  walls  did  vex — 
When  hangman's  ropes  were  kept  for  felon's  necks. 

Good  God  !  be  thanked.     One  dares  the  tempests  brave, 
That  round  his  head  in  rolling  thunders  rave — 
One  dares  to  raise  his  hand  to  Heaven  and  swear 
That  Right  shall  rule,  and  our  loved  country  spare. 

Then  let  me  strike  my  joyous  lyre  again, 
For  so  my  spirit  sings  the  glad  refrain — 
Though  fierce  the  howling  storm,  the  murky  scope, 
Spanned  by  a  sheening  rainbow  gives  sweet  Hope  ! 


TO   FRANCE. 


I  pity  thee,  O  France, 

Thou  hast  led  so  wild  a  dance 
O'er  stormy  seas,  sans  compass,  sail  and  rudder  ; 

Death  has  opened  wide  her  door, 

Thou  hast  glutted  it  with  gore, 
And  the  horrid  sight  has  made  the  nations  shudder. 

Of  Prussia's  King  the  jest, 

Thou  his  bloody  wit  confest 
(Such  a  lesson  erst  thou  taught  thy  neighbor  brother), 

'Tis  the  worst  of  thy  disgrace 

That  thy  sons  before  thy  face 
Like  maniacs  fell  and  guillotine  each  other. 

Poor,  sunny,  sullied  France  ! 

Too  changing  to  advance, 
One  forward  step,  and  then  one  backward  ever — 

"  A  monarch,"  then  "The  People"! 

"Prince,"  "Serf";  then  " Free  and  equal "! 
In  Reason's  name  wilt  thou  be  constant  never  ! 

In  science  first  of  nations, 

All  render  thee  oblations, 
In  government  unstable  as  the  water  : 

To-day  a  "  king  "  doth  reign, 

To-morrow  fled  or  slain — 
"The  People  "  rule — 'tis  anarchy  and  slaughter. 

I  pity  thee,  O  France  ! 

Thou  hast  led  so  wild  a  daece 
Through  bloody  seas  that  oft  thy  bosom  cover, 

Oh,  hast  thou  yet  to  learn 

That  true  liberty  will  spurn 
The  land  o'er  which  no  Christian  graces  hover  ? 
1871. 


323 


TO    LITTLE    EDITRESS    NELLIE. 

[Whose  father   was  not  able    to    support  his    family  on  account 
of  ill  health,  and  who  was  motherless.] 

A  worthy  lesson  thou  dost  teach,  sweet  one, 
That  children's  willing  hands  can  much  avail 

To  ease  the  burdens  of  a  parent's  life, 
When  manhood's  health  and  strength  begin  to  fail. 

In  useful  work  one  ever  happier  is  ; 

And  yet  thy  youthful  heart  must  oft  be  sad, 
With  no  dear  mother's  fond,  approving  smile, 

Nor  cheering  word  to  make  thy  task  more  glad. 

Or  when  friends  fail  thee  in  thy  sorest  need, 

When  all  seems  dark  or  with  temptation  rife, 
„    To  have  no  mother  thy  soul-cry  to  heed, 

And  soothe  with  gentle  tones  thy  inward  strife. 

Or  when  disease  has  paled  thy  fair,  young  cheek, 
Or  crimsoned  it  with  fever's  burning  glow, 

To  have  no  mother  near  to  smoothe  thy  bed, 

Nor  bathe  with  cooling  hand  thy  throbbing  brow. 

Ah  !  Nellie  darling,  I  can  feel  for  thee. 

Like  thee  was  I  bereft  in  childhood's  years  : 
My  mother  heard  her  Savior  call,  and  soared 

Where  there  is  never  weariness  nor  tears. 

But  often  when  my  heart  is  bruised  and  sore, 
Or  to  my  brow  the  aching  hectic  clings, 

I  seem  to  hear  her  soothing  angel  tones, 
Or  feel  the  farmings  of  her  angel  wings. 


324 


Thou  precious  one,  tliy  mother  may  be  near, 
As  near  as  when  thy  baby  head  did  rest 

In  perfect  trust,  in  infant  innocence, 

Upon  her  loving,  pulsing,  earthly  breast. 

And  certain  am  I  there  is  One  who  deigns 

His  praying,  working,  trusting  child  to  bless  ; 

He  aids  thy  willing  hands,  dries  all  thy  tears. 
Oh  !  God  does,  pitying,  shield  the  motherless. 


WE  SHALL  MEET  AGAIN. 

We  shall  meet  them  again,  but  no  more  by  the  hearth 
Where  the  days  of  our  childhood  were  fleeting  ; 

We  fchall  meet  them  again,  but  oh  never  on  earth 
Shall  our  warm  lips  press  theirs  in  the  greeting. 

We  shall  meet  them  again,  tho'  they've  paled  from  our 

view 

As  the  bright  starlight  pales  in  the  morning ; 
We  shall  meet  them  again,  tho'  they've  passed  through 

the  blue 
To  realms  of  sweet  Mercy's  adorning. 


325 


We  shall  meet  them  again,  when  we've  sailed  o'er  the 
sea, 

Where  sorrow's  waves  heave  in  commotion  ; 
We  shall  meet  them  again,  when  we  land  on  the  lea 

That  lighteth  eternity's  ocean. 

We  shall  meet  them  again  —  what  sweet  joy  fills  the  breast 
When  we  tell  to  our  sad  hearts  the  story  ! 

We  shall  meet  them  again,  where  no  graves  must  be 

prest  — 
There  are  no  buried  hopes  up  in  gloi  y. 

We  shall  meet  them  again  —  the  blest  day  clraweth  near 
When  our  souls  shall  unite  ne'er  to  sever  ; 

We  shall  meet  them  again,  where  there's  no  parting  tear, 
Vorever,  lorn  weeper,  forever. 

We  shall  n:eet  them  again,  face  shall  smile  upon  face, 
Rehearsing  the  joys  that  have  crowned  them  ; 

We  shall  meet  them  and  know  them  and  fold  in  embracs 
The  Eden-forms  Jesus  hath  found  them. 

We  shall  meet  them  again,  we  shall  meet  them  again  — 
I  could  breathe  my  soul  out  in  repeating 

The  only  bright  hope  that  to  me  doth  remain  — 
My  life's  beacon-  star  is  that  meeting. 


326 


A  LITTLE  PRAYER  FOR  A  GREAT  GOOD. 


Lord  !  help  me  think  of  Thee — 

Look  on  me  from  above, 
And  guard  me  from  the  snares  of  earth, 

With  thy  undying  love. 

Lord  !  fill  my  heart  with  grace- 
Let  gratitude  inspire 

My  tongue  and  pen  till  thankless  men 
Confess  'tis  heavenly  fire. 

Lord  !  make  me  all  thine  own — 

Thy  holy  spirit  give — 
And  fill  my  soul  with  thy  delights 

E'en  while  on  earth  I  live. 

Lord  !  let  me  see  and  know 
Thou  heed'st  my  earnest  cries, 

And  make  me  feel  a  heavenly  zeal 
Each  day  my  soul  supplies. 


Our  cherub  child  with  blithesome  feet 
Now  happy  walks  the  "  golden  street." 
But  Oh,  we  miss,  each  day  and  hour, 
Her  winning  ways,  her  soothing  power. 


Life  is  Love,  and  Love  is  Life, 

And  in  that  Life  there  must  be  Hope — 

Or  life  is  Death. 


327 


SUNDAY. 


This  is  the  Christian's  day  of  rest. 

A  holy  calm  descends  from  Heaven 
And  fills  the  Christian's  thankful  breast 

With  quiet  trust  in  sins  forgiven. 

This  is  the  day  for  earth  to  raise 
Its  sweetest  incense  to  the  Throne — 

Its  heartfelt  prayers  and  songs  of  praise — 
For  all  our  loving  Lord  hath  done. 

This  is  the  day  the  sin-sick  soul, 

Unwashed  in  Jesus'  blood,  should  cry, 

"  Be  merciful  ! "  "  Lord,  make  me  whole  !  " 
Unto  thy  sheltering  arms  I  fly. 


328 


A  LITTLE  WORD  FOR  WOMAN'S  RIGHTS. 


In  this  proud  age  most  men  believe 
Women  have  souls  as  well  as  they — 

u  Yet  there's  a  difference  "  they  perceive — 
"Just  what  it  is,"  they  cannot  say. 

But  icoman's  is  a  female  soul; 

Perforce  inferior  to  the  male — 
Man's  stature,  larger,  should  control — 

For  "  Might  makes  Right  "  and  must  prevail. 

"  Nor  male,  nor  female,"  Christ  hath  said — 
"  We're  one  in  Him,"  His  word  doth  tell — 

No  sex  of  soul  the  sovereign  head 
Doth  recognize  where  angels  dwell. 

Since  there's  "  nor  male  nor  female  soul," 
What  righteous  claim  does  man  possess 

That  he  should  hold  o'er  us  control 
Simply  because  our  size  is  less  ? 

Civilization's  Christian  school 
Teaches  wise  lessons  all  should  ken — 

'Tis  mind  and  mind  alone  should  rule- 
Not  stature  large  nor  simply  men. 

How  many  women  of  our  day 

Show  powers  of  thought  that  far  excel 

Some  of  our  rulers — yet  they  say 

"  Why  should  ye  Against  your  yoke  rebel  ?  " 

A  Christian  woman  bow  the  heads, 
And  bend  to  man  the  willing  knee  ; 

When  Christ  our  wise  Lawgiver  said, 

"  Stand  fast  wherewith  lie  made  us  free."  * 

*  Galatians  5,  1. 


329 


I'VE  CHANGED  MY  MESTD. 


Few  years  ago,  as  some  have  seen, 

Of  woman's  Rights  "  I  sought  to  make 

A  little  fun — my  pen  was  green  " — 
I  was  not  then,  full  wide  awake. 

Experiences  sharpen  wit — 

My  eyes,  since  then,  are  opened  quite, 
Some  deeds  before  my  vision  flit 

That  let  into  my  mind  the  light. 

I,ve  heard,  and  seen,  and  felt,  and  known 

That  woman  is  the  veriest  slave 
That  man,  poor  brutal  man  can  own, 

Until  her  footsteps  reach  the  grave. 

And  such  too,  in  a  Christian  land 
Where  worthy  men  and  wise  we  find, 

Who  take  all  other  "  wrongs  "  in  hand, 
But  yet  to  woman's  wrongs  are  blind. 

Therefore  with  tongue  and  pen  'tis  meet 
That  now  our  birthright  we  should  claim. 

Freedom  to  women's  ears  is  sweet — 
There's  Heaven-wrought  music  in  the  name. 


He  who  from  Freedom's  hallow'd  stream 
Doth  drink  his  fill  each  day  and  hour — 

How  can  he  fully  know  or  dream 

Of  woman's  thirst  for  Freedom's  dower  ? 


330 

Push  on  the  work  then  with  our  might  ! 

The  battle  now  is  well  begun — 
Brothers  may  aid  us  in  the  fight — 

But  we  must  lead,  till  we  have  won. 

Yet  not  as  worker  in  the  throng 

Of  this  grand  cause  ought  I  to  speak  ; 

Worse  than  a  laggard  for  so  long, 
A  blush  of  shame  distains  my  cheek. 

But  blessed,  brave,  large-hearted  band, 

I  ask  forgiveness  of  you  all. 
I  give  you  now  my  willing  hand 

"To  do  or  die  "  at  Freedom's  call. 
OCTOBER,  1869. 


331 


A  DIALOGUE  IN"  A  NUTSHELL. 


He — You  have  a  little  property, 

And  so  must  pay  a  tax. 
The  Law  requires  you  to  obey, 
You'll  find  it  in  the  "  Acts."  * 

She — I  have  a  little  property, 
But  I'm  a  woman,  sir, 
I  have  no  voice  in  making  laws, 
To  pay  you  I  demur. 

'Tis  wrong  to  tax  a  person  whom 

You  wont  permit  to  vote. 
I  from  our  "  Constitution  "  plain 

Must  be  allowed  to  quote. 

He — If  to  the  "  Constitution,"  ma'am, 

You  go,  you  lose  your  case 
Within  that  treasured  scroll  you'll  find 
You  have  indeed  no  place. 

"All  men  are  free  and  equal  "  there 

Of  woman  'tis  not  writ — 
For  you  to  claim  equality 

With  us  is  quite  unfit. 

Site — "  Know  all  men  by  these  presents,"  so 

Your  men-made  laws  do  say  ; 
If  "  all  men  "  means  not  women  too, 
Why  should  we  them  obey  ? 

If  "  all  men  "  women  do  include, 
Why  then,  wise  sir,  you  see, 

If  law-abiding  citizens, 

We're  "  equal  "  too,  and  "  free." 

*  The  law  "  Acts,"  not  the  Bible  "  Acts." 


332 

If  on  our  property  we're  "  taxed," 
"We  should  be  "  represented  "  ; 

And  if  we  wish  to  vote,  by  what 
Just  law  are  we  prevented  ? 

lie — "Well,  madam,  if  you  think  'tis  so, 

The  law  why  don't  you  test  ; 
Go  to  the  polls  with  force  enough 
To  prove  you're  not  "  in  jest." 

Let  him  who  challenges  your  vote 

His  legal  right  essay  ; 
To  show  why  you  should  have  no  voice 

In  laws  you  must  obey. 

She — Man  makes  the  luws — enforces  them 

His  selfish  aims  to  suit. 
His  brutal  powers  superior 
Few  women  would  dispute. 

On  earth  'tis  not  the  righteous  cause 
That  always  wins  the  day  ; 

The  "  strongest  arm  "  too  often  is 
Victorious  in  the  fray. 

In  this  proud  land  which  boasts  so  loud 

Of  Liberty  and  Reason, 
For  woman  to  assert  her  Rights 

Men  think  is  worse  than  treason. 

Yet  soon  we'll  follow  your  advice, 
And,  sir,  please  note  the  sequel — 

"We'll  try  the  virtue  of  the  law 

"  All  men  are  free  and  equal." 
OCTOBER,  1869. 


SUNDAY    MUSINGS. 


Is  death  a  long,  untroubled  sleep, 

To  last  while  ages  pass  away  ? 
To  last  till  earth  and  waters  deep 

Are  summoned  to  give  up  our  "  clay"  ? 

It  may  be  that  these  frames  shall  find 
A  dreamless  rest  in  earth's  deep  womb. 

But  where  is  the  immortal  mind 
While  ages  roll  ?    Is  sleep  its  doom  ? 

'Tis  "  dust  to  dust "  when  forms  are  laid 
Within  the  dark  and  silent  grave  ; 

But  the  ethereal  part  is  "  weighed," 
And  sinks — or  flies  to  God  who  gave. 

Dear  Lord,  when  in  the  earth's  cold  breast 
This  senseless  form  must  one  day  lie, 

Let  my  "  freed  soul "  in  Thee  find  rest, 
And  peace  and  joy  while  time  rolls  by. 

And  when  the  last,  loud  trump  shall  sound, 
And  all  of  time  hath  pass'd  away, 

May  I  be  with  the  righteous  found, 

Thine  own,  through  Heaven's  eternal  day. 

And  there,  dear  Savior,  may  I  meet 

And  join  with  friends  I've  loved  so  dear 

In  singing  round  thy  mercy-seat 
Songs  angels'  ears  will  love  to  hear. 


Songs  of  thy  great  redemption,  Lord, 

Of  triumph  through  thy  precious  blood- 
That  'twas  for  us  "made  flesh  the  Word"- 
Jesus  !  the  Crucified  !  our  God  1 

Unequalled  deed  !  most  glorious  theme  ! 

O  matchless  grace  of  power  divine  ! 
The  bliss  of  which  I  now  may  dream, 

Shall  it,  dear  Savior,  there  be  mine  ? 

Dear  Lord,  'tis  meet,  too,  here  below 
We  hymn  thy  praise  in  grateful  lays  ; 

Here    streams  of  mercy  constant  flow, 
Thy  blessings  crown  us  all  our  days. 


THE  POOR  MAN'S  GRAVE. 

The  poorest  man  on  earth  at  last 

One  spot  of  ground  will  own, 
And  few  will  covet  him  his  soil 

With  thistles  overgrown. 
And  even  should  some  loving  friend 

Bedeck  his  land  with  flowers, 
'Twould  scarcely  then  so  tempting  be 

As  make  us  wish  'twere  ours. 


335 


GOD'S  VOICE  IN  NATURE. 


Is  it  not  strange  that  we  who  think  and  see, 

Do  not  more  clearly  read  God's  hieroglyphs — 

His  marvelous  works  about  us  everywhere  ! 

Sun,  moon  and  stars — earth's  seas,  and  hills,  and  plains, 

Its  ledged  rocks  of  dark  and  shining  ore, 

Snow,  rain  and  hail,  and  the  tempestuous  storms, 

Tree,  shrub  and  flower,  and  every  breathing  thing,    • 

And  feel  the  winter's  cold  and  summer's  heat, 

And  hear  of  the  great  wonders  that  the  mind 

Of  man,  pent  in  so  frail  and  small  a  scope 

As  is.the  brain  within  its  narrow  skull, 

Can  seemingly  invent  and  so  perform, 

Acted  upon  by  spirits  unseen  here, 

But  ever  near  !     Is  it  not  more  than  strange — 

Surpassing  strange  that  we  forget 

Or  fail  to  know  and  own  Him  all  in  all  ? 

Forget,  or  dare  disown,  His  watchful  care 

And  long  enduring  love,  shown  by  His  works  ? 

Our  minds  were  very  pent  and  dull  to  need 

Another  book  than  the  Creation's  Book 

Wherein  to  read  of  God's  omniscient  eye, 

His  omnipresence,  and  omnipotence, 

And  boundless  love  to  those  who  serve  Him  here  ! 

It  is  indeed  because  our  minds  arc  small 

(A  drop  as  'twere  in  the  immensity 

Of  the  great  whole  of  thought  that  filleth  space — 

The  spiritual  essence  of  the  Deity), 

And  dull  to  take  in  such  great  truths 

Unless  brought  down  to  our  capacity  ; 

That  they  must  written  be  within  a  Book 

Whose  compass  is  so  small  that  we  may  take 

And  hold  it  in  our  hand  and  turn  the  leaves 

And  read,  as  is  our  need,  to  give  us  faith 


Iii  One  Supreme  ;  and  teach  us  all  is  best 

To  those  of  contrite  hearts  ;  even  though  oft 

In  sorrow  chastened  sore,  or  humbled  low. 

Father  of  all !     Awake  our  minds  !  enlarge 

Our  thinking  souls,  even  while  bound  within 

This  little  span  that  clips  the  wings  of  thought, 

And  make  us  wisely  worship  on  bowed  knee, 

And  soar  in  grateful  praises  to  Thee,  First 

And  Best !     Creator!  Savior  !  Sovereign!  loving  Lord  ! 


337 


THE  TWO. 


There  are  lights  in  the  palace 

On  the  green  embower'd  hill. 
There's  a  light  in  the  cot 

By  the  stream  near  the  mill. 
The  lights  in  the  palace 

Nearly  rival  the  sun — 
So  brilliant  and  many  ! 

While  the  cot  has  but  one. 

In  the  palace  there  's  music, 

And  dancing,  and  plenty — 
In  the  cot  there  is  sorrow, 

And  the  cupboard  is  empty. 
The  miller  has  long 

On  his  sick-bed  been  lying — 
Does  the  mill-owner  know 

That  his  miller  is  dying  ? 

The  mill-owner 's  rich 

And  the  palace  is  his. 
Why  should  he  feel  sad 

On  a  night  such  as  this  ? 
The  music's  entrancing  ! 

The  dancing  is  fine  ! 
The  banquet  unrivalled 

In  viands  and  wine. 


Sweet  flowers  with  fragrance 
Perfume  the  soft  air — 

From  sunny  climes  gathered 
Exotics  most  rare. 


338 

And  every  thing  round  him 

On  which  his  eyes  rest 
Is  a  gem  of  its  kind — 

The  richest  and  best.  ^ 

Soft  moonbeams  are  falling, 

With  the  stars'  silvery  light — 
Without  all  is  placid, 

Within  all  is  bright. 
And  the  kind  words  of  friends, 

And  the  repartee  gay, 
Wine,  music,  and  dance 

Charm  the  wing'd  hours  away. 

But  the  miller  owns  never 

A  place  on  the  earth — 
The  cot  is  not  his — 

He  has  no  home  and  no  hearth— 
His  candle  is  dim, 

His  fire  burns  low, 
And  the  eyes  of  his  loved  ones 

With  tears  overflow. 

No  kind  friends  are  near 

To  give  aid,  or  to  speak 
The  comforting  word 

That  gives  strength  to  the  weak. 
The  moon's  gentle  light, 

And  the  stars'  brilliant  train, 
Bring  no  charm  to  his  cot, 

And  no  ease  to  his  pain. 

But  the  poor  miller  soon 

In  his  palace  will  dwell. 
And  bask  in  the  bliss 

Which  all  earth's  joys  excel. 


339 

And  the  mill-owner  rich 
On  his  couch  will  he  lying, 

And  friends  now  so  gay 
Will  hold  watch  o'er  him  dying. 

And  the  mill-owner's  soul 

When  from  earth's  duties  free, 
And  his  body  lies  cold, 

To  what  home  will  it  flee  ? 
In  a  palace  above, 

Or  with  spirits  below — 
TJiere  will  it  be  weal  ? 

Or  there  will  it  be  woe  ? 


340 


MARY— THE  HOLY. 


Mary  !    Queen  amid  the  angels  ! 

Once  thy  f  oot-i'all  pressed  the  earth. 
Fresh  in  youth  and  fair  in  beauty, 

In  thy  breast  sweet  hopes  had  birth. 

And  when  womanhood  came  to  thee, 
Crowned  by  spirits  from  above — 

Thou  didst  know  a  mother's  travail, 
Thou  didst  learn  a  mother's  love. 

And  like  us  poor,  sinful  mothers, 
Holding  close  thy  first-born  child — 

What  ecstatic  joy  came  o'er  thee, 
When  thy  babe  first  on  thee  smiled. 

And  like  us,  what  rapture  thrilled  thee, 
When  thou  sawest  each  beauty  new 

In  thy  nursling  babe  unfolded 
As  in  infant  charms  He  grew  ? 

And,  like  us,  how  oft  thou  pondered 
Would  He  grow  to  manhood's  prime  ! 

And  a  blessing  prove,  thou  wondered, 
Living  here  a  life  sublime  ! 

Yet  the  words  by  angels  spoken 
(To  thy  vision  like  a  dream) 

Much  thy  meditations  broke  on — 
Was  He  more  than  did  beseem  ? 


341 

For  thou  sawest  Him  in  childhood, 
"  Wonderful"  in  deed  and  thought. 

And  thou  knew  that  with  His  being 
Something  mystic  was  inwrought. 

Growing  from  thee  !  unlike  others — 
Sinless  yet  with  sorrow  marred  ! 

And  thou  questioned  more  the  Future. 
Praying  Heaven  thy  son  to  guard. 

But  the  end  came,  boding  mother  ! 

And  thy  heart  with  anguish  filled  ; 
On  the  cross  on  sad  Mount  Calvary 

There  His  breaking  heart  was  stilled. 

Blessed  Mary  !  Holy  Mother  ! 

Honored  most  of  human  kind  ; 
For  the  "  sword  that  pierced  thy  soul  "  so 

Brought  the  light  to  sinners  blind. 


342 


THE  LITTLE  PEARL-DROP. 


A  pretty  little  pearl -drop 

Within  the  Ocean  lay— 
A  daring  diver  found  it 

And  bore  it  far  away. 
The  Ocean  never  miss'd  it — 

The  precious  little  thing  ! 
But  a  Queen  was  proud  to  wear  it 

Set  in  a  golden  ring. 

And  so  how  many  a  trifle 

The  rich  doth  kindly  give 
Unto  his  poorer  brother, 

To  give  him  strength  to  live, 
Not  miss'd  from  his  abundance, 

Oft  proves  of  value  more 
Than  the  proud  Queen's  pearl-drop 

From  Ocean's  hidden  store. 

And  to  the  donor  'twill  be 

As  "  bread  on  waters  cast," 
And  he  shall  find  'twill  come  again 

When  "  many  days"  are  past, 
Bringing  a  goodly  interest^ 

Worth  more  than  pearls  or  gems 
Set  in  Queen's  golden  circlets 

Or  in  their  diadems. 


343 


THE  BIRD'S  SONG. 


There  came  to  me  a  messenger— 

A  bird  of  plumage  bright — 
As  all  alone  I  sat  me  here 

A  reading  late  at  night. 
'Twas  in  the  pleasant  summer  time-— 

The  window  high  was  raised — 
But  'twas  an  unco'  time  to  come  ! 

Methought  the  bird  was  dazed. 

It  winged  its  way  straight  o'er  my  head 

As  in  my  room  it  came, 
Without  a  single  sign  of  fear, 

It  seemed  so  very  tame, 
Then  lit  upon  the  mantle-piece 

And  smoothed  its  brilliant  crest, 
And  folded  close  each  little  wing 

As  though  it  fain  would  rest. 

Then  "  quick  as  thought"  it  raised  its  head 

Cocked  up  its  little  eyes, 
And  opened  wide  its  little  bill 

All  to  my  great  surprise, 
And  softly  sang  this  little  song, 

So  pretty  and  so  sweet — 
"Love  each,  love  all,  love  every  one, 

Love  makes  our  life  complete." 

And  then  it  spread  its  little  wings 

And  quickly  flew  away, 
And  left  me  lone  to  ponder  o'er 

The  words  its  song  did  say, 


344 

"  Love  each,  love  all,  love  every  one, 
Love  makes  our  life  complete." 

Ah,  well  metliought  to  be  beloved 
Is  very,  very  sweet ! 

"  Love  each,  love  all,  love  every  one," 

Thus  said  the  simple  strain, 
To  "  be  beloved"  it  did  not  add 

Unto  the  sweet  refrain. 
And  then  methought  who  truly  loves 

Will  meet  a  like  return. 
Who  giveth  much  receiveth  much 

How  many  fail  to  learn. 

And  then  I  woke,  for  o'er  my  book, 

Fatigued  with  cares  of  day, 
I'd  dropped  to  sleep — but  sure  enough 

A  bird  had  lost  its  way. 
And  poised  upon  my  windowsill 

With  little  quiv'ring  throat 
The  timid  wee  thing  softly  chirped 

Its  lovelorn,  winsome  note. 


345 


FIRST  ROBIN  OF  THE  SPRING. 


To-day  I  hear  a  robin  sing, 
How  jubilant  the  tone  ; 

First  robin  of  the  early  spring 
Returned  from  Southern  zone. 


Welcome  !  thrice  welcome,  pretty  guest ! 

Sweet  songster  in  the  tree  ; 
Last  year  a  bird  there  built  her  nest, 

And  there  sang  merrily. 

Trill  out  the  merry  roundelay, 

No  harm  shall  here  come  nigh  thec — 

No  wicked  hunter  rove  this  way 
Nor  naughty  boy  shall  spy  thee. 

Perhaps  thou  art  the  self-same  bird 

That  trilled  before  our  door 
The  pretty  songs  we  last  year  heard, 

Come  back  to  sing  us  more  ! 

If  so,  where  are  the  fledglings  five  4 
Thou  reared  within  that  nest  ? 

Are  still  the  chirping  things  alive 
"Warbling  their  prettiest  ? 

Before  some  other  cottage  door 
Do  now  those  wee  things  sing, 

Their  birdling  melody  outpour 
A  free-will  offering  ? 


346 


These  crumbs  sweet  robin-redbreast  take, 

We  scatter  them  for  thee — 
A  poor  return,  indeed,  they  make 

For  birdie's  minstrelsy. 


WE'VE  WAKENED. 


We've  wakened  from  our  lethargy — 

The  sleep  of  ages  gone  ; 
Our  cries  have  pierced  the  Heavens, 

Our  prayers  have  reached  the  Throne, 
And  we  know  our  Father  heeds  them — 

Gone  forth  is  His  decree. 
O'er  Christian  lands  the  morning  breaks, 

And  woman  shall  be  free. 

'Tis  passing  strange  our  heritage 

We  yielded  for  so  long, 
And  bow'd  so  low  our  patient  necks 

Because  man's  arm  was  strong, 
When  there  was  one  Omnipotent, 

If  we  had  sought  his  aid 
In  earnestness,  would  long  ago 

Have  burst  the  bonds  Man  made. 

Our  dear  and  blessed  Saviour, 

Eighteen  hundred  years  ago, 
Owned  woman  as  His  mother, 

And  her  glory  did  foreshow. 
To  mortal  man  such  honor 

Was  never,  never  given — 
To  be  a  parent  of  the  Lord 

Who  reigns  o'er  earth  and  heaven. 


347 


So  sisters,  we'll  be  trustful — 

Our  wails  have  pierced  the  skies. 
Our  prayers  have  reached  the  Heavenly  Throne, 

Our  Father  heeds  our  cries. 
The  hour  of  our  freedom 

He  will  not  long  delay — 
The  hour  which  hastes  the  coming 

Of  Earth's  great  millennial  day. 

We  will  burnish  bright  our  armor, 

And  gird  our  lances  on, 
And  our  champing  steed  keep  harnessed 

Ready  for  the  glorious  dawn. 
And  we'll  march  to  martial  music 

While  our  serried  ranks  increase ; 
And  our  watchword  shall  be  Freedom, 

And  with  Freedom  shall  be  Peace. 

For  when  we've  nobly  conquered, 

And  our  libeity  secured, 
We'll  right  the  very  many  wTrongs 

We  have  so  long  endured. 
We'll  wave  the  fresh,  green  Olive  Branch, 

And,  "white-winged,"  sally  forth  : 
And  wars  shall  end  and  love  increase, 

And  Peace  fill  all  the  earth. 

We'll  wave  the  fresh,  green  Olive  Branch, 

And  send  our  Carrier-clove 
To  all  the  nations  far  and  near 

With  messages  of  love, 
And  show  them  that  the  waves  that  lash'd 

Our  noble  Ship  of  State 
Have  made  it  pure — safe  ark  for  all 

Who  on  its  blessings  wait. 


348 


HEARTH  AND  HOME. 

A   SONG. 


I  mind  me  of  a  Hearth  and  Home 

In  a  valley  by  the  hill, 
Beneath  the  elm  tree's  cooling  shade, 

Anear  a  rippling  rill, 
Where  brothers  dear  and  sisters 

Beguiled  the  fleeting  hours 
With  hearts  as  joyous  as  the  birds 
And  careless  as  the  flowers. 

Oh,  'twas  a  happy,   happy   band  around 

the  Hearth  at  Home, 

Where    time  flew  by  on    golden    wings, 
'ere  Heaven  whispered,  Come  ! 

In  that  sweet  home  a  mother's  lips 

Spake  e'er  the  gentle  word, 
And  there  a  loving  father's  voice 

In  kindest  tones  was  heard, 
And  there  the  aged  grandsire, 

Beside  the  hearth  of  yore, 
Told  wondrous  tales  of  daring  deeds, 

And  dreamed  life's  battles  o'er. 

Oh,  'twas  a  happy,  happy  band,  etc. 

How  humble  in  that  pleasant  home 

The  morn  and  evening  prayer  ! 
What  heartfelt  hymns  of  praise  were  sung 

Around  the  hearthstone  there  ! 
How  innocent  the  prattle 

Around  the  parent's  knee  ! 
How  soft  the  soothing  lullaby 

That  hush'd  the  infant  glee  ! 

Oh,  'twas  a  happy,  happy  band,  etc. 


349 


I've  pass'd  through  many  lands  since  then, 

I've  sailed  o'er  many  seas  ; 
I've  sought  'mid  charms  of  every  clime 

My  lonely  heart  to  please  ; 
But  of  all  the  loveJy  places 

Through  which  I've  chanced  to  roam 
The  sweetest  to  my  memory 

Is  the  old  Hearth  and  Home. 

Oh,  'twas  a  happy,  happy  band,  etc. 

I  see  thy  low  and  time-stain'd  roof, 

Blest  home  of  childhood  days  ! 
Thy  moss-grown  eaves,  thy  ivied  walls, 

Thy  broad  hearth's  cheerful  blaze, 
Where  gathered  friends  the  dearest ; 

A  loving,  kindred  throng, 
Whose  words  were  music  to  mine  ear, 

Sweet  as  a  seraph's  song. 

Oh,  'twas  a  happy,  happy  band,  etc. 

Methinks  the  star-crown'd  angels  came 

From  yonder  viewless  shore, 
And  pass'd  with  silent  footsteps  oft 

Athrough  the  old  Home  door 
To  woo  away  our  lov'd  ones 

Who  early  went  to  rest, 
And  left  the  Hearth  all  desolate 

My  youthful  feet  had  prest. 

Oh,  'twas  a  happy,  happy  band,  etc. 

My  forehead  now  is  wrinkled  o'er, 

My  hair  is  growing  gray. 
I  feel  my  bark  is  Hearing  fast 

A  land  not  far  away, 
But  my  heart  beats  young  as  ever, 

And  my  pulses  sweetly  thrill 
When  I  recall  the  Hearth  and  Home 

In  the  valley  by  the  hill. 

Oh,  'twas  a  happy,  happy  band,  etc. 


350 


"  FOOTPRINTS  OF  THE  CREATOR." 

•*         

Hugh  Miller  !  I  have  read  thy  wondrous  book — 

"Footprints  of  the  Creator" — master-work  ; 

What  wonder  that  thy  brain  was  overwrought, 

Thou  student  of  the  Ages  !  what  research, 

Deciphering  the  language  of  the  rocks — 

Of  eras  upon  eras  passed  away  ! 

Showing  that  time  has  been  almost  etcrn, 

And  this  now  is  God's  "  seventh  day  of  rest," 

In  which  He  lays  aside  creative  power, 

And  gives  to  fallen  man  free  agency 

To  conquer  sin  and  free  redemption  claim. 

Thou'st  given  to  us  convincing  proof  that  life 

Of  fish,  and  beast,  and  bird,  exceeding  ours, 

Breathed,  moved  and  flourished  till  the  sea  upheaved 

And  earth  convulsed — thus  ending  age  on  age — 

So  that  a  new  creation  might  arise 

From  debris  of  the  old,  superior 

If  not  in  size,  in  grace  and  intellect. 

And  all  gives  witness  to  thce  of  unrest 

In  every  period  of  advancing  time. 

And  thou  bcliev'st  man  never  could  exist 

In  such  a  state  of  chaos.     Yet  methinks 

Each  great  upheaval  might  have  been,  alas  ! 

The  resurrection  morn  for  mould'ring  forms 

Which  human  beings  like  to  us  did  wear, 

Sinning  and  suff  ring  ;  some  redeemed,  some  lost ! 

Some  may  be  spirits  of  the  nether  world, 

Which  come  like  "lions  seeking  to  devour," 

Some  angels  and  archangels  round  the  Throne. 

The  angels  who  stood  guard  at  Paradise 

May  once  have  lived,  and  felt,  and  died  like  us^ 

And,  too,  like  us,  when  earth  gives  up  its  dead, 

In  the  dark  chaos  leave  no  stamp  or  form 

For  other  coming  ages  to  find  trace. 


351 


For  all  these  "  works  shall  be  burned  up,"  and  so 
From  out  the  fire  a  "  Heaven  new  and  earth" 
Shall  spring  again  from  God's  creative  hand 
Showing  forth  His  glory. 


MY  FATHER,  DR.  ROSWELL  BATES. 


My  Father  !  God  !  who  ever  thus  ordains 

The  flower  most  crushed  shall  sweetest  perfume  give, 

"Why  should  not  my  bruised  soul  breathe  tender  strains 
So  sweetly  sad  they  would  this  life  outlive. 

For  from  mine  infancy  I've  felt  the  smart 

That  sorrows  deep  can  make  the  weak  one  feel, 

And  life  still  offers  me  the  darker  part 
And  wounds  me  when  I  thought  Thy  hand  would  heal. 

My  father  !  Oh,  my  father's  breath'd  his  last, 
And  angels  met  him  as  he  passed  away  ; 

But  how  it  wrings  my  heart  that  in  the  past 
He  suffered  while  I  could  not  ease  his  stay. 

He  prayed  !  O  God  !  he  prayed  an  easy  death — 
Knowing  so  well  his  parting  day  was  near, 

But  to  his  last,  his  very  last  drawn  breath 

Thou  show'd'st  no  token  that  Thine  ear  could  hear. 

But  when  kind  Heaven  did  give  his  soul  release, 
E'en  after  death's  mark  stamped  his  marble  brow, 

I  said  "  Dear  father  if  thy  soul's  at  peace, 
And  thou  art  happy,  smile  upon  me  now." 


352 

He  smiled  !  thank  God  I  thank  Heaven,  he  gave  the  sign, 

He  smiled  upon  me  as  I  said  the  word, 
And  then  I  knew  'twas  wicked  to  repine, 

Or  doubt  the  goodness  of  his  Saviour-Lord. 

He  smiled  though  kind  friends  told  me  he  was  gone — 
Though  he  lay  bound  beneath  death's  icy  chain, 

Yet  did  Gocfrgive  him  power  to  make  known 
Our  loss  was  for  our  father's  greater  gain. 

For  his  long  eighty  years  of  work  was  done — 
That  thinking,  active,  praying  soul  Avas  free, 

To  "  Paradise"*  the  angels  led  him  on, 
His  anguish  now  was  turned  to  jubilee. 

He'd  search'd  the  Scriptures  daily  since  his  youth, 
He'd  bow'd  him  daily  at  God's  altar-fire, 

He'd  taught  his  children  "  God  is  Love  "  in  truth, 
And  Heaven  and  Wisdom  were  his  chief  desire. 

And  so  we  feel  more,  God  doth  give  reward 
To  all  who  seek  Him — all  who  love  His  name — 

And  the  poor,  sorrowing,  sinking  soul  will  guard 
Though  anguish  rack  this  weak  and  wasting  frame. 

lie  smiled,  that  smile  comes  to  my  vision  oft — 

'Tis  stamp'd  indelibly  upon  my  brain  ; 
It  helps  to  raise  my  thoughts  and  hopes  aloft, 

And  makes  me  know  that  we  shall  meet  again. 


My  father  !  O  my  father  !  theme  so  dear, 
I  knelt  beside  thy  grave  but  yestereven, 

And  prayed,  and  whispered  to  thee,  didst  thou  hear  ? 
Scarce  four  feet  from  me,  yet  so  far  as  Heaven. 

*IIis  last  word. 


353 

I  told  thee  of  my  sorrows,  of  my  cares, 
I  asked  thee  of  my  brothers,  sister,  mother  ; 

I  hush'd  me  for  some  answer  to  my  prayers, 
Some  token  to  assure,  as  did  the  other. 

I  sought  to  learn  of  "  Sherdie,"  precious  dove  ! 

Thy  only  grandson  thence  so  early  flown — 
If  thou  dost  see  him  in  thy  Home  above, 

A  white-wing'd  cherub  nestling  near  the  Throne. 

And  other  friends  long  dear  unto  thine  heart, 
If  they  were  with  thee,  how  they  sped  the  while — 

If  they  did  act  in  Heaven  an  angel's  part, 

And  joyed  to  greet  thee  in  the  "  Blessed  Isle." 

Oh,  if  good  spirits  come  from  spirit-land, 
If  thou  canst  come  and  tell  an  angel-story, 

How  gladly  would  I  clasp  thy  spirit-hand, 
And  list  with  eager  ear  thy  tale  of  glory. 

It  does  not  seem  that  thou  for  aye  art  gone, 
Thy  spirit  oft  I  feel,  anear  me  lingers — 

Each  thing  thy  hand  hath  touch'd,  thine  eye  look'd  on, 
Methinks  doth  feel  thy  press  of  spirit-fingers. 

I  do  believe  thou  hear'st  me  when  I  call, 
That  when  I  think  of  thee,  thy  shade  is  near  me, 

For  thought  is  linked  to  thought,  and  soul  to  soul, 
And  Heaven  to  all,  good  God !  who,  loving,  fear  Thee. 


354 


MY  FATHER. 


Didst  thou,  then,  meet,  my  father  dear, 

The  loved  ones  gone  before  thee  ? 
Or  why  was  that  ecstatic  look 

That  suddenly  came  o'er  thee  ? 
After  the  long  death -struggle  ceased, 

What  meant  that  upward  gaze, 
As  though  an  unexpected  sight 

Of  bliss  did  thee  amaze  ? 
f 

'Twas  something  beautiful,  I  ween, 

It  seemed  a'glad  surprise — 
That  vision  of  the  other  world 

That  met  thy  raptured  eyes — 
That  look,  that  last,  that  parting  look, 

Did  something  more  express 
Than  mortal  power  can  ever  know, 

Than  earth-clad  souls  can  guess. 

We  may  surmise  'twas  friends  belov'd 

Met  thee  in  bright  array, 
To  waft  thee  from  the  realms  of  death 

To  everlasting  day. 
We  may  surmise  'twas  angel-bands, 

With  wings  of  radiant  light, 
And  starry  crowns,  and  golden  lyres, 

That  met  thy  raptured  sight, 
With  loving  Jesus  at  their  head, 

Bright  leader  of  the  throng, 
Who  came  to  bear  thy  spirit  Home, 

With  joy  and  angel -song. 


355 

We  may  surmise  the  gold-paved  streets, 

Within  that  "city  new," 
And  birds  with  plumage  beautiful, 

And  flowers  of  rainbow  hue, 
And  trees  that  grew  from  golden  sands 

Hard  by  the  shining  river, 
Were  opened  to  thy  gladsome  view, 

A  sight  of  joy  forever. 

We  may  surmise  thou  saw'st  the  Throne, 

Of  Him  the  great  "  I  Am," 
Whose  praises  shining  seraphs  hymn 

And  wave  the  jeweled  palm, 
Waiting  His  mandates  to  obey — 

His  messages  of  love — 
To  all  the  ransomed  ones  of  earth, 

Through  all  the  courts  above. 


We  may  surmise  the  star-gemmed  skies, 

Were  to  thy  vision  clear  ; 
That  what  we  count  as  grander  worlds 

Is  each  a  seraph's  sphere, 
Or  guardian  angel  looking  down 

With  loving,  pitying  eye, 
On  every  sad  and  death-doomed  child 

Who  would  to  Jesus  fly. 

We  may  surmise,  but  ne'er  can  know, 

What  meant  that  parting  smile, 
Until  for  us  is  raised  the  veil 

By  angel-hands  ere  while. 
We  may  surmise,  but  all  in  vain, 

What  met  that  upturned  gaze, 
Till  spirit-free  our  eyes  shall  see 

What  did  his  soul  amaze. 


356 

Eye  hath  not  seen,  ear  hath  not  heard, 

Nor  can  the  heart  conceive, 
The  joyousness  awaiting  those 

Who  on  the  Lord  believe. 
To  mansions  in  our  Father's  house 

Naught  can  on  earth  compare, 
Lit  by  the  Sun  of  Righteousness, 

No  shadow  enters  there. 


SWEET  TWILIGHT  STAR. 


Thou  heavenly  star  !  at  day's  decline 
So  sweetly  calm  thy  silvery  shine — 
Art  thou  an  Eden  for  the  Blest 
Where  wearied  ones  of  earth  find  rest  ? 

My  cherub  babe  hath  taken  wings 

And  songs — the  Sweet  ! — with  angels  sings. 

But,  Oh  !  I  miss  my  precious  one, 

A  cloudlet  dims  my  earthly  sun. 

I  miss  her — every  star  at  even 
Reminds  me  of  the  loved  in  heaven. 
But  thou,  far  lovelier  than  the  rest, 
Methinks  her  tiny  feet  have  prest. 

Methinks  the  music  of  thy  sphere 
Enhanced  by  Baby's  tones  so  dear  ! 
Methinks  the  sweetness  of  thy  light 
Enhanced  by  Baby's  eyes  so  bright  ! 

Sweet  Twilight  Star  !  thy  gentle  beams 
Send  to  my  spirit  soothing  dreams — 
Cast  round  my  soul  a  soothing  spell ; 
I  feel  "He  doeth  all  things  well." 


357 


COMING  AND  GOING. 


Coming  and  going,  coming  and  going, 
Coming  and  going  as  each  winged  moment  flies. 

Sowing  and  reaping,  waking  and  sleeping, 
The  infant  is  born  and  the  hoary  man  dies. 

Coming  and  going,  coming  and  going, 
No  turning,  no  halting,  no  rest  by  the  way. 

Toiling  and  hoping,  through  the  darksome  path  groping, 
To-morrow  is  garnered  what  blossoms  to-day. 

Coming  and  going,  coming  and  going, 

Up  and  down  the  hard  steeps  of  the  journey  of  life. 
The  youth,  once  so  cheery,  growing  old,  weak  and  weary, 

Foot-sore  and  head  bowed  with  the  burden  and  strife. 

Coming  and  going,  coming  and  going, 

Like  the  ebbing  and  flowing  of  the  deep's  restless  waves. 
Living  and  dying,  sinning  and  sighing, 

Till  the  "last  trump"  shall  summon  the  dead  from 
their  graves. 

Coming  and  going,  coming  and  going, 
Till  the  angel  shall  stand  on  the  sea  and  the  shore, 

"  And  by  Him  that  liveth  shall  swear  time  now  ceaseth," 
And  coming  and  going  shall  never  be  more. 


358 


THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

[Written  after  my  father's  death,  and  before  leaving 
his  house.] 

Theso  walls  my  father  built  in  manhood's  morn, 

And  here  he  lived,  and  thought,  and  worked,  and  died, 

And  all  around  is  hallowed  by  his  touch. 

The  house  itself,  each  window,  wall  and  door, 

Each  piece  of  furniture,  each  table,  chair, 

Each  bureau,  sofa,  every  household  thing, 

Was  his  so  long  it  seems  almost  a  part 

Of  his  dear  self.     And  when  I  look  without 

And  see  his  office,  barn  and  sheds — the  well 

Whose  waters  cool  so  oft  he  drew  and  drank 

(And  taught  his  children  'twas  the  drink  God  gave 

To  quench  their  thirst,  and  therefore  should  suffice); 

The  pleasant  yards  with  all  their  treasured  shrubs, 

The  garden,  orchard,  with  their  precious  fruits, 

Of  which  he  took  such  care,  with  his  own  hand 

Nursing  each  root  and  sprout,  and  pruning  where 

He  saw  'twas  needful  to  lop  off  or  prop, 

And  then  in  harvest  gathered  all  their  store, 

And  safely  garnered  it  for  winter  use. 

I  cannot  help  but  feel  he  still  is  here 

And  cares  for  all  as  he  was  wont  to  do. 

And  when  we  part  with  aught,  or  take  away 

That  which  was  his,  I  feel  as  though  'twere  wrong, 

And  we  were  wrenching  from  his  hand  his  own. 

And  then  his  books  he  pondered  o'er  so  much  ! 

His  Bible  first,  then  books  professional 

And  those  of  science,  history  and  lore, 

With  margin  marked  on  almost  every  page 


359 

"Where  something  struck  his  mind  as  worthy  note, 

Showing  us  where  his  eyes  had  looked,  and  so 

Had  deeply  drank  the  thoughts  therein  expressed. 

And  then  the  lectures  that  he  wrote,  and  maps 

He  drew,  whereby  to  demonstrate  his  thought 

More  clear,  as  he  delivered  them  before 

Societies  and  schools,  and  otherwhere, 

To  benefit  the  minds  of  youth  and  age. 

And  when  I  call  to  mind  his  daily  prayers 

As  bowed  he,  worshiping  before  God's  Throne — 

Oh,  how  all,  then,  doth  doubly  seem  to  speak, 

And  tell  us  how  his  eighty  years  of  life, 

With  all  their  joys  and  sorrows,  lights  and  shades, 

Were  spent  in  busy  thought  and  worthy  deeds, 

Improving  every  moment  as  it  passed 

In  the  best  way  that  wisdom  did  direct ; 

And  setting  us,  his  children,  left  behind, 

Example  worth  far  more  than  shining  gold 

Or  precious  stones. 

And  when  at  morning  time 
I  go  into  his  lonely  room  to  plead 
Forgiveness  for  my  sins,  and  blessings  crave 
As  he  was  wont,  I  think  I  feel  him  near, 
And  he  doth  almost  seem  to  say,  "  Amen." 
And  now  to  know,  O  Heaven  !  that  I  must  leave 
This  hallowed  spot  for  aye — that  strangers  here, 
Beneath  this  roof,  within  these  walls  shall  dwell, 
And  call  what  was  my  father's  for  so  long 
Their  own. 

To  give  into  their  hands  the  keys 
By  which  he  held  possession,  now  no  more 
To  do  his  bidding,  keeping  all  within 
Safe  from  the  spoiler,  and  admitting  friends 
As  welcome  guests,  to  social  chat  and  treat 
Of  all  the  best  his  table  could  afford 
And  house  did  offer  for  so  many  years. 
To  think  that  other  voices,  glad  or  gay, 


360 

Shall  ring  through  all  these  rooms,  and  ours  no  more  ! 

To  think  that  others  not  akin,  and  strange, 

Shall  sit  beside  what  was  my  father's  hearth 

And  work  and  talk,  not  caring  for  him  gone  ! 

And  in  his  room  by  night  shall  rest,  and  sleep, 

And  pray,  perchance,  upon  the  self-same  spot 

Which  his  bent  knee  had  marked,  with  head  bowed  lew, 

And  eye  in  pleading  supplication  raised  ! 

And  it  may  be  that  in  some  future  day 

Shall  there,  like  him,  be  chilled,  and  sink  in  death 

While  angels  waft  the  spirit  to  its  God. 

Or,  it  may  be,  it  will  be  occupied 

By  one  forgetful  of  his  dues  to  God, 

Who  ne'er  will  kneel  repentant,  and  with  tears 

Confess  before  his  Maker  all  his  sins, 

And  pray  for  his  redemption,  and  His  aid 

To  help  him  to  resist  the  tempter's  wiles, 

And  strengthen  him  to  do  his  part  in  life 

In  such  a  "way  as  shall  acceptance  meet 

With  Him  who  is  all  power  and  perfcctness. 

And  then  this  room,  in  which  I  now  indite 

My  thoughts  so  sad,  speaking  my  poor  heart's  grief — 

This  room,  around  whose  board  he  thrice  each  day 

Did  sit  with  his  whole  household,  and  did  crave 

God's  blessings  on  the  bounty  He  supplied 

(Of  which  with  thankful  heart  each  then  partook)  ; 

And  when  was  ended  the  repast,  at  morn, 

He  read  to  listening  ears  the  sacred  page  ; 

Then  closing,  bowed  before  the  altar  which 

In  days  long  past  he  reared  and  still  kept  bright 

With  lieaventy  fire  until  the  sickness  came 

Which  forced  my  father  to  yield  up,  alas  ! 

That  daily  boon,  and  keep  his  bed  till  death. 

And  then  the  room  adjoining,  which  we  call 

The  sitting-room,  athrough  whose  windows  shines 

The  pleasant  sunlight  !   where  so  oft  have  met 

Dear  friends,  with  happy  hearts,  who  daily  held 

Sweet  converse  round  its  cheerful,  homelike  hearth, 


361 


And  yet  wherein  have  on  their  couches  lain 

Four  of  our  household  band  in  sickness  dire 

(With  but  few  years  between  each  solemn  call), 

From  whence  the  angels  took  them — sacred  room  ! 

Then  there's  the  hall  familiar,  parlor,  too, 

Where  many  guests,  invited,  came  and  whiled 

Away  the  hours  in  pleasant  chat,  or  joined 

In  pleasures  of  the  gayer,  livelier  sort  ; 

And,  too,  the  chambers  where  we  children  slept — 

So  full  of  comforts.     Oh,  how  dear  to  me 

Is  each  and  every  room  and  thing  therein  ! 

Most  dear  and  sacred  since  they  all  were  his. 

And  can  I  leave  ye,  never  more  to  come 

And  see  my  father  here,  and  hear  his  voice 

In  tones  of  welcome  to  me  !     Can  I  say 

Farewell  to  each — farewell  to  all  ?    Farewell  ! 

I  must !  and  pray,  "  God  help  me  !  "  and  Thou  wilt, 

For  Thou  dost  sec  and  pity.     Help  me,  God. 


362 


AUTUMN  LEAVES. 


Gorgeous  leaves  of  Autumn, 

Falling  thick  as  dew  ! 
Carpeting  the  earth  here 

With  every  brilliant  hue  ! 
For  you  the  artist-painter 

Hides  his  feeble  brush  ! 
Beside  your  dyes  his  colors  fade 

To  such  a  sickly  blush  ! 

Gorgeous  leaves  of  Autumn  ! 

All  the  wood's  ablaze  ! 
You  shame  earth's  proudest  painter 

To  lay  aside  his  bays  ! 
Vicing  with  the  rainbow 

And  the  sunset  fire  ! 
For  the  Hand  that  painted  you 

Paints  the  Heavens  Higher  ! 

Gorgeous  leaves  of  Autumn  ! 

When  tmr  Fall  has  come 
May  we  be  as  lovely 

In  our  other  Home  ! 
There,  in  brightest  clothing, 

May  our  spirits  shine 
As  beautifully  wrought  upon 

By  artist-hand  Divine. 


363 


THANKLESSKESS. 


How  forgetful  we  are 

In  our  follies  and  prides, 
To  offer  up  thanks 

For  the  good  God  provides. 
We  take  what  our  Father  bestows 

As  our  right, 
Leaving  our  worthlessness 

Quite  out  of  sight. 

Poor,  puny  creatures, 

With  nothing  our  own — 
Being  and  doing 

By  His  strength  alone, 
Walking  as  heedless 

And  thankless  each  hour 
As  though  were  created 

All  things  by  our  power. 

Oh,  man  should  be  humble, 

Excepting  in  this — 
That  Thou,  Dearest  Saviour, 

May  be  his  if  he  wis. 
The  Christian  may  bow  low, 

Then  rise  from  his  knee 
Lamenting  his  sin  so, 

But  glorying  in  Thee. 

Oh,  thou  Unrepentant  ! 

That  thou  shouldst  be  proud  ! 
Hide,  hide  thee  like  Adam — 

Of  the  leaves  weave  a  shroud 


364 

To  veil  thy  pollution 
From  eyes  that  can  scan. 

Save  only  the  Christian 
Should  be  prized  a  true  man. 

Save  only  the  Christian 

Should  dare  to  arise 
And  walk  on  the  earth 

With  his  head  tow'rd  the  skies. 
The  soul  that  is  filthy 

Will  grovel  in  mire, 
As  like  clings  to  like 

And  the  slave  to  his  hire  ! 


365 


CREATION  TEACHES  WONDROUS  SONGS. 


From  mountain  grand 

To  little  hill, 
From  Ocean  vast 

To  rippling  rill, 
From  largest  tree 

To  tiniest  flower, 
From  sun  to  star, 

From  dew  to  shower, 
From  frozen  sea 

To  snowy  wreath, 
From  howling  blast 

To  zephyr  breath, 
From  Summer  heat 

And  noonday  light 
To  Winter  cold 

And  black  midnight, 
From  thunder  roll 

To  insect  hum, 
From  shout  of  joy 

To  sorrow  dumb, 
From  table-land 

To  valley  deep — 
Beneath  wrhose  sand 

Old  ages  sleep, 
From  hugest  rock  to  silicate, 

From  thinking  man  to  radiate, 
From  Heaven  above,  from  earth  below — 

All  with  poetic  beauty  glow, 
And  we  with  thankful  lips  should  sing 

Sweet  praise  to  the  Creative  King. 


JESUS  LOVING,  ALL-FORGIVING. 


Jesus  Loving,  all-forgiving, 
Zone  me  with  protecting  arm  ! 

Guide  my  spirit  upward  striving, 
And  my  tempter,  Doubt  disarm. 

Jesus  Loving,  hear  my  story  ! 

In  this  dark  my  courage  dies, 
And  tbe  glimpses  of  Thy  Glory 

Fade  before  my  spirit-eyes. 

Reach  I  forward,  blindly  groping, 
Falt'ring,  stumbling  in  the  way. 

Always  praying,  always  hoping, 
Looking  for  the  lighter  day. 

Reach  I  upward,  vainly  trying 
That  thy  vesture  I  may  touch  ; 

And  I  weary  of  my  crying, 
And  my  soul  faints  overmuch. 

Reach  I  outward,  hither,  thither, 
Seeking  Thy  dear  Hand  to  find, 

But  iny  hopes  within  me  wither, 
And  I  seem  to  grow  more  blind. 

Jesus  Loving,  all-forgiving, 
Let  Thy  Voice  my  spirit  hear  ! 

Gently  hush  my  spirit  grieving, 
Make  my  Better  pathway  clear. 


367 

Jesus  Loving,  all-forgiving, 

Lead  me  to  the  Brighter  Clime  ! 

With  the  choral  angels  living 
May  I  hymn  Thy  Love  sublime. 

Oh,  I  know  I'm  all  unworthy, 
Clothed  in  garment  of  the  dust  ! 

But  my  pleadings,  Lord,  must  stir  Thee 
To  renew  my  hope  and  trust, 

Oh,  I  know  I'm  bold  in  striving 
E'er  to  join  the  angel-choir  ! 

Jesus  Loving,  all-forgiving, 
Through  Thee  only  I  aspire  ! 

Of  myself  I'm  less  than  nothing, 
In  Thy  strength  I  all  may  do. 

Jesus  Loving,  all-forgiving, 
Thou  canst  make  me  angel,  too. 

Thou  canst  wash  me  in  a  fountain 
That  will  make  my  spirit  white  ! 

Thou  canst  lift  me  to  the  mountain 
That  Thy  Glory  maketh  light  ! 

Thou  my  palsied  lips  can  open 

In  a  song  of  seraphim  ! 
Jesus  Loving,  I  will  hope  on, 

Singing  here  my  feeble  hymn  ! 


THE  CHICAGO  FIRE. 


Please  here  permit  us  to  rehearse, 

Or  read  a  tale  done  up  in  verse, 

Of  the  star-city — so  confest — 

Of  the  star-city  of  the  West. 

'Twas  mostly  written  while  she  lay 

In  ruins,  as  'twere  her  Judgment  Day — 

A  smoking,  smould'ring,  blacken'd  mass — 

Hearing  of  which  we  wept,  alas  ! 

Over  the  startling,  woful  tale 

That  made  each  human  face  turn  pale, 

And  in  our  pity  did  indite 

Some  thoughts  we  here  present  to-night. 

If  the  word-pictuie  prove  too  faint 

Bethink  you  it  was  hard  to  paint 

A  scene  so  awful,  sad  and  grand, 

Except  'twere  done  by  angel's  hand. 

Within  the  scroll  that  then  we  penned, 

Fancy,  perchance,  with  fact  may  blend. 

But  one  short  prayer  therein  seems  willed, 

To  be  a  prophesy  fulfilled, 

For  wondrous  deeds  are  being  wrought 

Almost  surpassing  hope  or  thought  ; 

And  old  Aladdin's  famous  light, 

Chicago  now  casts  out  of  sight — 

Making  us  almost  think  'twas  so — 

That  story  of  the  "Long  Ago." 

Now,  since  you  Grantites  "have  the  day," 
In  everything  can  have  your  way — 
Since  you  our  Country  firm  enfold 
In  your  embrace  with  strength  to  hold, 


369 


You  can  afford  that  speech  be  free, 

Though  one  should  with  you  disagree. 

At  least,  to  woman  you  may  yield 

The  flow  of  tongue — her  rightful  shield. 

If,  therefore,  in  our  verse  you  find 

Words  which  you  deem  unwise,  unkind, 

Please  pardon  give  us,  for  we've  known 

Some  sorrows  that  have  made  us  moan. 

Our  countrymen's  sharp  lash  we've  felt, 

All  undeserved,  severely  dealt. 

The  gash  it  cut  was  deep  and  sore — 

The  wound  is  not  yet  quite  healed  o'er, 

For  painful  memories,  sad  bequest 

Of  that  dark  time,  oft  fill  our  breast, 

While  unforgiving  feelings  rise 

And  bitter  tear-drops  dim  our  eyes. 

In  eighteen  hundred  sixty-one, 

Clouds  dimmed  the  sky,  the  air  was  dun, 

For  o'er  our  land  War's  tocsin  rang 

And  warriors  from  the  earth  upsprang, 

Till  brother  spilled  his  brother's  blood 

Cain-like  before  the  face  of  God. 

Opposed  to  War — "  States'  Rights  "  his  creed- 

Our  husband  saw  his  Country  bleed  ; 

And  in  the  name  of  "Liberty," 

Thinking  expression  still  was  free, 

He  dared  some  protests  wise  to  make — 

They  did  not  "burn  him  at  the  stake," 

But  for  this  crime  long  months  was  barred 

In  prison  walls  our  lawful  lord, 

And  we  were  racked  with  dreadful  fear 

He'd  come  no  more  our  home  to  cheer. 

With  bleeding  heart  we  wielded  then 

Our  captive  husband's  guileless  pen. 

For  we  were  left  with  children  three, 

Weeping  around  our  parent  knee 

With  mouths  in  want  of  daily  bread 

Which  by  our  labors  must  be  fed. 


370 

An  editress  we  thus  became 

Forced  by  our  need  to  earn  the  name, 

Though  angry  threat  and  jeering  word 

Cast  on  us  thick,  the  while,  we  heard. 

Yet  some  there  were  who  cheered  us  on 

With  blessings  till  our  task  was  done. 

Rememb'ring  which,  for  each  kind  friend 

A  daily  prayer  to  Heaven  we  send. 

To  "  "Woman's  Eights  "  committed  then, 

To  use  her  "  talents,"  "  one  "  or  "  ten," 

The  which  God  gave  her — we  have  quite, 

At  last,  become  its  Neophyte. 

And  now  with  head,  and  heart,  and  hand, 

Aspire  to  join  that  nable  band 

Which  since  has  multiplied  so  fast 

Some  men  among  you  look  aghast, 

Lest  woman  yet  should  turn  the  tide 

And  hold  the  reins  while  they  must  ride. 

In  other  words,  lest  she  should  rule, 

And  they  be  taught  in  woman's  school 

To  drudge  in  kitchens,  cook  and  scrub, 

And  sweat  for  hours  before  the  "  tub," 

Teach  for  half-pay — or  stitch  till  death — 

Till  pale  consumption  saps  the  breath — 

Or  deck  their  persons  debonair, 

Weak  slaves  to  fashion — false  as  fair, 

While  she  will  vote,  or  strut  at  ease, 

Or  do  whatever  else  she  please. 

Indeed,  we  think  some  are  afraid 

She'll  turn  the  scales  so,  ffiey'U  be  made 

To  bear  her  curse  since  Eden's  hour, 

And  motherlwod  will  be  their  dower. 

But  of  this  last  there  seems  a  doubt 

If  things  can  be  so  turned  about. 

Should  such  befall  them,  sure  it  is, 

They'd  shirk  "responsibilities," 

Until  a  baby's  darling  face 

Our  lonely  homes  would  seldom  grace, 


371 

And  earth  become  a  desert  wild 
With  only  here  and  there  a  child. 


Fire  I  Fire  1  hark  that  cry 

As  the  wind  goes  rushing  by — 

Fire  !  Fire  !  It  comes  nearer  ! 

Fire  !  Fire  !  It  comes  clearer  ! 

Fire  !  Fire  I  Don't  you  hear,  sir  ? 

And  the  gale  is  growing  fiercer  ! 

See  !  that  flame  there,  forking  !  leaping  ! 

And  the  storm-wind  still  increasing  ! 

Fire  !  Fire  !  upward  darting  ! 

All  the  shadows  skyward  parting  ! 

Forward  shooting  !  broader  growing  ! 

Like  a  heated  furnace  glowing. 

Fire  !  Fire  !  myriad  voices 

Cry  it !  shout  it  !  till  the  noise  is 

Deaf  ning  !  stunning  !  woful  !  wierdful ! 

And  the  glare  is  growing  fearful ! 

And  the  people  I  hither  !  thither  ! 

Wand'ring  wild — they  know  not  whither 

Like  a  host  with  leader  dying 

From  a  conquering  army  flying. 

Fast,  the  fireman's  engines  playing — 

Not  a  jot  the  broad  flames  staying. 

Hasten  friend  !  let's  aid  our  brother, 

We  perchance  may  help  to  smother 

The  destroyer  fast  advancing 

Like  a  furious  steed  come  prancing. 

Fire  !  Fire  !  hither  !  yonder  ! 

How  so  many  flames  I  wonder  ! 

Are  incendiaries  round  us  lurking 

With  their  lighted  torches  working  ? 

Thick  as  snow-flakes  see  the  sparks  fly  ! 

Crackling  !  striking  'gainst  the  dark  sky. 

Helpful  men,  alas  !  are  wanted 

By  the  danger  not  yet  daunted, 


372 

From  the  city's  every  quarter 
To  push  on  with  hose  and  water 
"With  a  skilful  hand,  unflinching — 
All  the  city  thereby  drenching. 
So,  to  quench  the  fiery  torrent 
(To  the  creeping  flesh  abhorrent), 
Leaping,  flowing  far  and  wide 
Like  the  belching  lava-tide. 
Fire  !  Fire  !  hissing  !  glistering  ! 
All  the  air  grows  hot  and  blistering  ! 
Speeding  !  spreading  !  fiercer  rolling  ! 
Hear  the  church  bells  faster  tolling  ! 
Wind  and  fire  with  might  are  waging 
War  against  us  in  their  raging. 
Like  huge  Afric  lion,  roaring, 
All  his  deadly  wrath  outpouring 
On  his  enemy  illfated, 
Ere  his  blood  his  maw  has  sated. 
Or  Niagara's  deaf  ning  flood 
Sounding  like  the  voice  of  God. 
Fire  !  Fire  !  Farther  !  Nighcr  ! 
Sweeping  WTith  destruction  dire, 
And  the  tumult,  and  the  blazing 
Eye  is  dazing — brain  is  crazing, 
Till  the  soul  is  sick  and  swounding 
From  the  dangers  thick  surrounding. 
As  when  burnished  armor  flashing 
Of  the  soldiery  fencing,  clashing, 
And  the  musketry's  loud  rattle, 
And  the  shrieks  and  din  of  battle, 
Make  earth  tremble  with  the  jarring, 
And  skies  sicken  at  the  warring. 
Fire  !  Fire  !  Fire  !  Fire  ! 
Comes  the  sharp  cry  louder,  higher, 
Cutting  through  the  hot  air  quicker, 
As  the  flames  grow  faster,  thicker — 
And  the  city's  short  of  water  ! 
Gracious  God  !  we  fear  the  slaughter  ! 


373 


Men,  to  save  tbeir  pelf,  fast  toiling 
In  the  scorching  ilames  are  broiling  ! 
Men,  to  save  their  lives  are  flying  ! 
Women,  children,  shrieking,  crying  ! 
Pushing  !  rushing  Lere  and  there, 
Seeking  safety  everywhere. 
Roofs  are  caving — walls  are  falling — 
Useless  now  man's  toiling,  moiling, 
Hundreds  'mid  the  ruins  lying  ! 
Hundreds  in  the  streets  are  dying  ! 
And  the  blast  is  wilder  blowing  ! 
And  the  flames  like  floods  are  flowing, 
Wreathing  !  seething  !  smelting  !  burning  ! 
Onward  scathing,  never  turning — 
And  the  shrieking,  praying,  groaning, 
And  the  cursing,  weeping,  moaning, 
Thieves  and  murderers  join  the  melee, 
Come  from  far  and  near  to  waylay, 
(Of  the  people  shaking,  quaking, 
Quick  advantage  thereby  taking), 
Jostling,  trampling,  killing,  plundering, 
Whilo  the  earth  seems  rending,  sundering, 
With  the  swaying,  creaking,  crashing, 
Of  the  rolling,  leaping,  lashing, 
Flames  that  lick  the  earth  and  air, 
Nothing  from  their  wrath  to  spare. 
Swiftly,  o'er  wire  telegraphic, 
From  the  East  to  the  Pacific 
(Than  an  eagle  flying  faster), 
Wings  the  news  of  the  disaster. 
Calling  friends  to  lend  assistance 
'Gainst  the  foe  that  scorns  resistance. 
And  the  calling  so  far-reaching, 
Thousands  hear  the  cry  beseeching  ; 
And,  with  noble  impulse  thrilling, 
Men  with  ready  hands  and  willing, 
With  their  implements  of  might, 
Come  the  fiery  fiend  to  fight. 


374 

But  the  efforts  superhuman 
Of  a  many  a  hurrying  carman, 
With  his  iron-footed  horse, 
Thundering  o'er  the  short'ning  course, 
As  'twere  with  the  whirlwind's  speed, 
Answering  the  call  of  need, 
Are  in  vain — the  city's  sources 
Of  her  numerous  water-courses, 
Which  had  erst  her  want  supplied, 
By  the  monster  flames  are  dried. 
So,  from  hours  to  days,  the  fire, 
Like  a  besom,  sweeps  in  ire, 
As  an  army  vast,  victorious, 
Sweeps  the  field  of  foe  inglorious  ; 
All  within  its  pathway  blighting, 
Hurling  !  felling  !  crushing  !   smiting  ! 
Ar  ;1  as  down  from  Alpine  chain, 
Hurtling  o'er  the  peopled  plain, 
Comes  the  avalanche  with  power, 
In  the  unsuspecting  hour 
Came  it,  and  no  mortal  hand 
The  destroyer  may  withstand  ; 
And  as  molten  lava  glowing 
From  volcanic  crater  flowing, 
Shooting  upward  in  its  streaming 
Lights  the  far  skies  with  its  gleaming, 
JSo  the  spreading  flames,  updriven, 
Seem  to  reach  the  floor  of  Heaven, 
And  for  miles  from  dangerous  site 
Night  is  brightened  by  their  light, 
And  a  gloom  o'er  hearts  and  faces 
Casts  in  distant,  skylit  places. 


Oh,  our  Saviour  !  Father  holy  ! 
To   Thine  aid  we  look  now  solely. 
Bend  Thine  ear  Lord  !  hear  our  prayer  ! 
Are  we  not  still  in  Thy  care  ? 


375 


Help  us  !  shield  us  !  to  us  proving 
Thou  art  still  our  God  the  loving. 
We  have  sinned  and  are  not  worthy, 
But  forgive  us  of  Thy  mercy  ; 
On  weak  man,  too  Iqng  relying, 
Now  to  Thee  we  lift  our  crying. 
Our  forgetfulness,  transgressing — 
All  our  littleness  confessing. 
Thee   our  only  helper  owning, 
In  our  sin  and  sorrow  moaning, 
With  our  eyelids  red  with  weeping. 
Lord  !  AVC  bow  to  TJiee,  entreating, 
With  Thy  potent,  outstretched  hand, 
Quell  the  wind  and  quench  the  brand. 
With  our  faces  in  the  dust 
Thus  we  pray,  and  thus  we  trust, 
Thus  we  pray,  hist !  God  be  praised 
For  our  eyes  look  up  amazed. 
See  !  the  wind  its  course  is  changing  ! 
Backward  now  the  fire  is  ranging 
O'er  the  path  it  swept  so  cruel 
Finding  left  but  little  fuel. 
O'er  the  late  gay  streets,  now  covered 
With  the  embers  not  yet  smothered. 
O'er  the  dead  ones  that  departed, 
Murdered,  crazed  and  broken-hearted. 
And,  good  God  !  the  rain  is  falling  ! 
Heaven  !  sure,  did  heed  us  calling. 
Thank  Thee  !  Thank  Thee  !  Thou  all  glorious 
O'er  all  elements  victorious. 
Thou  hast  spoken,  and  Thy  Word 
Wind,  and  flame,  and  wrath  have  heard  ; 
But,  alas  !  what  havoc  dire 
Here  is  wrought  by  wind  and  fire. 
Palace  homes  and  marble  halls 
Rich  with  frescoed,  gilded  walls- 
Regal  courts,  and  parks  for  pleasure, 
Stores  of  varied,  costly  treasure— 


Temples,  spires  magnificent, 
And  the  poor  man's  tenement — 
Operas,  theaters,  studios  splendid, 
In  the  mass  of  ashes  blended  ! 
Keepsake  sacred,  gold  and  jewel, 
All  commingled  with  the  fuel. 
Note,  and  bank,  and  bond  are  burned, 
And  to  worthless  dust  are  turned. 
And  the  bones  of  beings  human, 
Women,  children,  rich  and  poor  man, 
Who  to  death  were  madly  hurried, 
Part  consumed,  part  charr'd,  part  buried, 
In  the  smould'ring  heaps  are  l}'ing, 
Seen  by  eye  the  waste  surveying, 
Till  the  soul,  faint,  sickened,  saddened 
By  such  scenes  of  woe  is  maddened. 

Dear  Chicago  !  bowed  so  lowly  ! 
Eiiiu  came  to  thee  not  slowly. 
Like  a  lightning  stroke  it  took  thee, 
Like  a  thunderbolt  it  shook  thee. 
As  by  sword  from  the  Almighty, 
Thrust  by  hand  with  anger  weighty, 
Thou  art  felled,  and  groan  in  dust, 
Knowing  still  that  God  is  just. 
So  each  sister  city  shaking, 
Fears  the  Powers  above  are  waking 
To  chastise  their  wof  ul  sinning, 
Money-worship,  greed  of  winning — 
Pride  and  self-love,  God-forgetting — 
Wallowing  in  sins  besetting. 
And  to  purge  with  fire-ablution 
Stenching  sinks  of  rank  pollution, 
Suffered  in  their  midst  to  flourish — 
Sucli  iniquities  they  nourish. 

Poor  Chicago  !  Fire-doomed  city  ! 
Others,  guilty,  give  thee  pity  ! 


377 


All  their  hearts  for  thee  are  broken — 

All  their  purses  for  thee  open, 

While  they  weep  the  tear  of  sorrow, 

Wishing  thee  a  brighter  morrow. 

But  nor  pelf,  nor  tears  dropped -for  thee, 

Thy  dear  dead  ones  will  restore  thee, 

Nor  make  whole  thy  maimed  ones  living  ! 

Heal  them,  Jem  !  Thou  forgiving  ! 

And,  dear  Jesuf  soothe  the  grieving  ! 

Turn  their  hearts  to  Thee,  believing  ! 

Come  !  with  Thy  sweet  consolation, 

Comfort  those  in  desolation. 

Bride  and  bridegroom,  husband,  wife, 

Here  untimely  reft  of  life. 

Parent  reft  of  son,  of  daughter, 

By  the  dreadful  fiery  slaughter. 

Children  reft  of  father,  mother, 

Reft  of  sister,  reft  of  brother. 

And  the  poor  man  reft  of  shelter, 

Shield  from  want  in  storms  of  winter. 

And  the  orphan  homeless,  friendless, 

And  the  widow  let  Thy  hand  bless. 
And  the  brain  with  shattered  reason, 
Pray  restore  in  happy  season. 
And  again  shed  down  Thy  blessing 
On  the  site  to  thought  distressing, 
Raising  soon  o'er  these  remains, 
Rare  in  beauty,  homes  and  fanes 
(With  sweet  peace  and  love  indwelling, 
From  glad,  grateful  hearts  upwelling) ; 
Halls  of  science,  seats  of  pleasure, 
Where  mirth  trips  in  guileless  measure  ; 
Greening  parks  with  grottoes,  fountains, 
Mimic  lakes,  and  groves,  and  mountains, 
Flowering  squares,  like  Eden's  garden, 
With  the  fairest  blossoms  laden. 
And  upon  the  waste  terrific 
Start  again  rich  marts  of  traffic. 


378 

For  yet  countless  generations, 
The  commingling  of  all  nations, 
With  their  footsteps  corning,  going 
Like  the  ocean's  tidal  flowing. 
All  that  makes  a  city's  greatness 
Gather  here  in  its  completeness, 
Till  the  people  gaze  in  wonder, 
On  the  city's  second  splendor — 
On  the  city's  second  rising, 
Phoenix-like  in  haste  surprising, 
Till  is  told  in  truthful  story, 
That  Chicago's  second  glory 
Far  exceeds  its  former  height 
As  the  moon  the  stars  in  light. 
Sad  Chicago  !  thy  dark  hour, 
Thick  with  fury,  wrought  with  power, 
Scarce  is  equaled  in  its  horror, 
Since  Sodoma  and  Gomorrah 
Helpless  writhed  in  seas  of  fire 
Sent  by  God's  avenging  ire — 
Heedless  erst  of  Heaven's  anger, 
Rushing  careless  into  danger, 
Warned  in  vain  by  God's  evangel 
Till  he  sent  destroying  angel 
Forth  to  blast  with  flaming  sword 
Cities  hated  of  the  Lord. 


Fated  city  !  molten  lying  ! 

In  thy  need  and  anguish  crying  ! 

Though  not  wholly  lost,  dejected, 

Thy  deep  woes  are  far  reflected  ! 

All  are  more  or  less  affected 

By  the  sweeping,  swirling,  surging, 

Fast  consuming,  blasting,  purging, 

Of  the  fire-god's  furious  urging. 

Almost  all  within  the  Nation, 

Friend  had  in  thee  or  relation, 


379 

Suffering  from  the  sea  of  flame, 
That  in  heaving  billows  came, 
Till  sweet  Mercy,  far  off  hearing 
Sounds  tumultuous  in  their  ncaring. 
Tones  in  agony  beseeching, 
Past  the  brazen  vault  up-reaching, 
Looked  adown  from  happy  portal, 
On  such  woes  of  beings  mortal ; 
And  with  humble  mien,  low  bowing, 
Came  with  saddened  aspect,  wooing 
God  to  hear  thy  piercing  prayer 
And  from  darker  terrors  spare. 
Heaven  heeding  Mercy  pleading, 
While  with  tender  bosom  bleeding, 
Quick  commanded,  "Peace  !  Be  still ! 
And  His  mandate  did  fulfil. 


Fallen  city  !  in  thy  anguish 

Hast  thou  thought  how  others  languish, 

By  our  Northern  hordes  invaded, 

Which  with  men  and  pelf  thou  aided  ! 

Sister  cities  of  the  South, 

Felled  by  belching  cannon's  mouth  ! 

Felled  by  fire  and  sword  and  plunder, 

Till  Heaven  shrank  aback  in  wonder, 

That  a  Christian  people  could 

So  despoil  a  sisterhood  ? 

Christian  !  Peace  and  good-will  meaning  ! 

Charity  for  others'  sinning  I 

Loving  as  thyself  thy  neighbor  ! 

Giving  of  thy  goods  and  labor 

In  compassion — without  hire, 

As  in  need  he  doth  require. 

Nation  no  more  wroth  with  nation, 

Yielding  war  a  dire  oblation  ! 

Swords  to  spears  and  plowshares  turning — 

Suck  the  teachings  for  our  learning — 


380 

Sucli  with  Christian  deeds  inwrought, 
Is  the  gospel  Christ  hath  taught. 

Yes,  Chicago  !  each  fair  city, 
Far  from  guiltless,  yields  thee  pity, 
For  the  "  Good  "  espy  from  Heaven 
Suffering  souls  to  anguish  driven. 
And  come  down  with  spirits  loving, 
Noble  hearts  to  blest  deeds  moving — 
For  God  gives  to  them  permission 
To  depart  from  realms  elysian 
On  such  errand  pure  and  holy 
To  the  needy,  sad  and  lowly, 
Till  each  hill-top,  plain  and  valley, 
From  our  North  and  "West  land  rally, 
To  restore,  in  part,  thy  losses, 
Feeling  such  a  glorious  cause  is. 
Men  with  riches  in  abundance 
Send  thee  share  of  their  redundance. 
Poor  men  laboring  send  assistance 
From  their  scanty  daily  pittance. 
Fair-browed  children  thy  name  lisping 
Ope  their  guileless  hands  assisting, 
While  the  widow's  sad  heart  yearning 
To  aid  somewhat  sends  her  earning. 
And  thy  terrors  far  resounding 
O'er  Atlantic  cable  sounding, 
Eastern  nations  haste  to  send  thee 
Kindly  aid  from  smiling  plenty, 
Darksome  days,  mayhap,  recalling 
O'er  their  homes  and  altars  falling, 
When,  tlieir  stricken  ones  sad  wailing, 
Reached  thy  ear  not  unavailing — 
And  the  South,  so  long  bowed  weeping, 
On  thee  "  coals  of  fire  "  is  heaping, 
Sorrow  for  thy  throes  now  nursing, 
Sending  blessing  for  thy  cursing — 
Thy  deep  wrongs  to  her  forgiving, 


381 

Thinking  only  of  thy  grieving — 

Wishing  she  had  greater  power 

To  assist  in  thy  sad  hour. 

In  this  blessed  truth  believing 

"  Better  giving  than  receiving." 

"  As  she  would  be  done  by,  doing." 

This  best,  Christian  way  pursuing — 

Taught  in  War's  baptismal  flood 

Kindness  is  akin  to  God. 

Though  thy  woes  can  but  remind  her 

Of  the  dark  days  left  behind  her. 

Chiefest  Prairie  city  !  lately 

In  thy  wealth  and  power  so  stately  ! 

Grown  with  speed  beyond  compare 

Up  to  giant  height  and  "  air," 

Looking  down  with  queenly  pride 

On  the  cities  at  thy  side — 

Mirror'd  on  the  broad  lake's  waters, 

Fairest  of  our  Western  daughters — 

Standing  yesterweek  in  splendor — 

Crowned  "  Queen  City"  in  thy  grandeur, 

Of  thy  throne  secure  tlien  seeming, 

Of  thy  doom  then  little  dreaming  ; 

"  Att  is  well,"  thy  watchmen  crying 

In  back  lanes  and  byways  spying. 

Now  by  devastation  dire 

Thou  look'st  one  vast  funeral  pyre  ! 

Or  a  monster  holocaust 

Scattered  o'er  the  dismal  waste, 

Where,  with  sacrilegious  tread 

Men  survey  thy  ashy  bed. 

Wond'ring  at  the  conflagration 

That  could  bring  sitc7i  desolation. 

City  !  clad  in  mourning  vesture, 
Shrunken,  shrivelled  in  thy  stature — 


382 


Fallen  like  a  meteor  spent — 
While  we  o'er  thy  fate  lament 
In  thy  sorrow  and  thy  need — 
This  the  writing  that  we  read. 
Heed  the  lesson  then  we  pray  us, 
Ood  needs  not  War's  hand  to  slay  us. 
When  His  brow  is  bent  in  ire 
Then  His  chariot  rolls  in  fire  ! 
When  lie  seeks  earth's  wrongs  to  right  them. 
Or  in  vengeance  He  would  smite  them  — 
He  is  able  to  accomplish 
All  His  purposes,  and  vanquish 
All  man's  striving  and  upbraiding, 
Though  the  Powers  below  were  aiding 
To  oppose  His  mighty  arm 
Which  such  wonders  doth  perform. 
lie  alone  can  still  the  blowing 
Of  the  wind  in  wild  wrath  going  ! 
He  alone  can  stem  the  rising 
Of  the  flames  in  anger  hissing  ; 
He  alone  can  send  the  water 
That  shall  stay  the  burning  slaughter  ; 
He  alone  is  God  the  chastening, 
In  our  anguish  comfort  hastening  ; 
He  alone  is  God  the  loving, 
By  our  sorrow,  our  faith- proving  ; 
He  alone,  with  scarce  a  breathing- 
Life  to  senseless  clay  bequeathing, 
With  His  watchful  eye  surveying, 
Itolling  spheres  His  word  obeying, 
Needeth  never  strength  to  borrow 
From  this  puny  world  of  sorrow  ; 
He  alone  is  God  through  all — 
God  is  great,  and  man  is  small. 
And  though  often  He  pursueth 
Sinners,  and  by  force  subducth 
Whom  nor  love  nor  warning  moveth, 


383 

Yet,  since  God  and  Christ  are  one 
(In  the  Father  dwells  the  Son), 
"  Mercy"  in  the  eternal  scales 
"Justice"  lifts,  and  "  Love"  prevails. 
So  of  Love  we'll  speak  awhile, 
Craving  Heaven's  approving  smile. 
Love  !  the  nectar  of  the  chalice 
Or  in  hut,  or  hall,  or  palace  ; 
Love  !  the  overflowing  fountain, 
Issued  forth  from  Calvary's  mountain. 
Love  !  the  manna  at  the  board, 
Where  we  feed  on  Christ  the  Lord. 
Love  !  pure  Love  !  and  not  the  passion 
Falsely  so  called  by  world  fashion 
(Not  the  sensual,  sordid  feeling 
Proved  by  jealousy,  revealing 
Rivalries  and  hates,  endangering 
Life  from  bold  or  secret  chambering, 
Many  to  perdition  leading, 
Wisdom's  cry  to  "  turn  "  unheeding) ; 
But  Love  perfect,  undefiled, 
Which  o'er  Eden's  garden  smiled 
Ere  the  serpent  Eve  beguiled, 
And  she,  clev'rest,  Adam  wiled 
(Life  from  lowest  type  ascending, 
Woman  last  and  highest  ending), 
Wrath  of  Love  upon  them  bringing, 
For  their  primal,  wanton  sinning, 
So  that  the  cherubic  warden 
Drove  them  out  from  Eden's  garden. 
Love  !  for  thought  the  loftiest  theme  ! 
Love  !  the  guileless'  purest  dream  ! 
Love  !  the  poet's  sweetest  song  ! 
Love  !  round  which  all  virtues  throng  ! 
Love  !  the  beautiful  in  feature  ! 
Earth's  and  Heaven's  fairest  creature  ! 
Love  !  "  the  Christian  charity," 
With  us  "  such  a  rarity." 


384 

Love  !  the  source  of  every  blessing, 
Holding  all  that's  worth  possessing — • 
Giving  help  all  bountiful, 
From  the  storehouse  plentiful, 
To  God's  children  in  their  need, 
Never  questioning  their  creed  ; 
Giving  money,  food  and  raiment, 
Suing  ne'er  for  note  or  payment ; 
Giving  sympathy  and  pity 
To  a  stricken,  sorrowing  city 
By  the  flames  so  devastated — 
That  we  call  her  the  "  Ill-fated," 
tlntil  Mercy,  Love's  handmaiden, 
To  her  rescue  comes  full  laden 
With  a  largess  from  each  nation, 
That  to  Love  doth  yield  oblation  ; 
To  us  doubting  sinners  telling 
There  is  much  of  God  indwelling 
In  the  hearts  of  many  mortals 
In  these  mammon-loving  portals. 
Love  !  thou  Purest !  Highest !  Holiest ! 
Oftentimes  in  garb  the  lowliest, 
Thou  dost  bring  the  Heav'ns  so  near 
That  they  touch  this  fallen  sphere, 
Dropping  here  and  there  some  kisses 
(Yielding  earth  some  little  blisses) 
Through  the  clouds  with  silver  lining, 
Like  the  sun,  perennial  shining, 
Till  from  out  her  ill-starred  bosom 
Springeth  many  a  blessed  blossom, 
Something  like  the  "  Rose  of  Sharon," 
Or  the  budding  "  Rod  of  Aaron  " 
Flinging  its  sweet  incense  up 
From  its  golden-petalcd  cup — 
On  the  air  around  it  leaving 
Perfume  meet  for  angels'  breathing — 
Tempting  saints  to  round  us  gather, 
Linking  Heaven  and  earth  together— 


385 


For  if  pure  Love  in  us  dwell 

We're  far  nearer  Heaven  than  Hell. 

"  God  is  love,"  and  where  Love  reigneth 

Mercy  for  us  Heaven  obtaincth. 

If  pure  love  doth  permeate  us 

It  doth  with  the  angels  mate  us, 

For  the  soul  from  its  imprison 

To  the  Ilights  shall  then  have  risen, 

And  the  grand  millennial  morn 

Of  its  blisses  shall  be  born. 

Love,  thou  Pearl  !  thou  Priceless  Treasure  ! 

Richest  Boon,  surpassing  measure  ! 

Love  !  thou  Noblest,  Tenderest,  Dearest ! 

Thy  embrace  all  good  inspherest  ! 

As  Immensity,  thou'rt  boundless  ! 

As  Eternity,  thou'rt  endless  I 

'Tis  Infinity  alone 

Cah  Thy  heighth  and  depth  enzone  ; 

Love  !  of  Thee  the  seraphim 

"VYeave  their  grandest,  sweetest  hymn, 

And  the  music-strain  enthrills 

All  the  Empyrean  Hills. 

'Twas  of  Thee  the  "  stars  of  morning" 

Sang  when  earth  and  skies  were  forming, 

Keeping  time  in  circling  motion 

To  the  chant  in  their  devotion  ; 

And  the  whirling  spheres  through  ether 

Chime  in  song  of  Thee  together  ; 

And  through  the  Eternal  Days 

Ransomed  souls  will  sound  Thy  praise, 

For  Thou  cam'st  in  fleshly  guise 

Down  to  bleed — man's  sacrifice. 

Love  !  thou  sunburst  of  the  soul 

Where  loud  hallelujahs  roll  ! 

Love  !  Thou  Sun  of  Righteousness, 

Worlds  on  worlds  Thee^Qod,  confess, 

And  'tis  Thy  effulgence  bright 

Orbs  the  countless  stars  with  light ; 


38G 

While  the  loftiest  hights  etern 
With  Thy  radiant  glory  burn, 
And  where  Thou  dost  shed  no  beam 
Darkest  hell  doth  reign  supreme. 
Love  !  we  love  Thee,  Thou  Divine  ! 
Low  we  bow  before  Thy  shrine, 
Humbly,  thankfully  adoring, 
All  our  soul  to  Thee  outporing, 
Praying  that  Thy  spirit-teaching 
Be  not  so  beyond  our  reaching, 
That  Thou  give  us  soulful  measure 
Of  Thee,  Peerless,  Priceless  Treasure  ! 
Love  !  the  sunshine  of  Thy  Being 
Is  the  smile  of  the  All-Seeing, 
And  the  ccstacy  of  bliss 
Is  the  rapture  of  thy  kiss. 
Love  !  the  Perfect — Father,  Son, 
Holy  Spirit— Three  in  One- 
May  we  crcr,  ever  sing 
Of  Thy  Glory,  Gracious  King, 
Sing  of  it  in  gardens  vernal 
While  we  roam  through  realms  eternal. 

Oh,  there  will  ever,  ever  roll, 
Resounding  o'er  each  starry  pole, 
Growing  in  sweeter,  grander  strain 
The  gladsome  song  that  love  doth  reign. 
And  souls  will  ever,  ever  trace 
Throughout  the  realms  of  boundless  space 
The  sparks  of  Love's  ecstatic  fire 
Emitted  by  th'  enraptured  choir 
That  sings  the  song  and  waves  the  palm 
Before  the  loving,  great  "  I  Am." 

Chicago  !  in  thy  burning  flood 
'Twas  Love  wept  o'er  thee  tears  of  blood, 
And  then  sent  forth  a  kindly  power 
To  aid  thee  in  thy  darkened  hour  ; 


387 


Assisting  so  that  now  we  gaze 

On  marvels  that  our  eyes  amaze, 

Till  we,  like  Shcba's  queen  of  old, 

Exclaim,  "  The  half  hath  not  been  told." 

And  if  to-night  we  bring  to  mind 

The  time  when  Love  appeared  unkind, 

Remember  Mercy  still  keeps  troth 

With  Love's  beloved,  tho'  Heaven  seemed  wroth. 

And  though  dire  chast'nings  have  been  given 

To  thee,  as  by  offended  Heaven, 

Look  up — thy  wondrous  power  behold  ! 

The  will,  ability,  and  gold, 

Poured  out  of  Love's  o'erflowing  trust 

To  raise  thy  city  from  the  dust, 

Till  in  new  beauty  now  she  glows, 

Like  blushing  bride  or  new-blown  rose  ; 

Till  adamantine  walls  arise, 

Like  Babel's,  towering  to  the  skies  ; 

And  gilded  domes,  and  burnished  spires, 

Glitt'ring  as  with  electric  fires, 

Seeming  almost  to  reach  the  stars 

And  pierce  beyon  1  High  Heaven's  bars, 

Astound  us  much  that  man  could  rear 

Such  architraves  in  one  short  year  ! 

While,  tireless  still,  with  railroad  speed, 

From  blackened  earth  new  walls  proceed 

Each  day,  more  lofty  and  more  grand, 

As  if  'twere  done  by  magic  wand — - 

Soon  leaving  not  a  trace  to  tell 

What  fate  Chicago  late  bci'ell. 

Let  then  thy  thanks  an  incense  meet 

Reach  daily  to  Love's  mercy-seat, 

And  humble,  fervent  prayers  arise 

Like  morn  and  evening  sacrifice. 

So,  guarded  by  Love's  sheltering  wing, 

Thou  shalt  move  forward  prospering, 

And  growing  greater  on  through  ages, 

Leave  written  on  historic  pages 


388 

Proud  records  of  thy  glorious  days 
Encrowncd  by  Song's  immortal  lays  ; 
While  other  cities,  far  and  near, 
Catch  at  thy  watchword,  and  revere 
Thy  guardian  Power  from  above, 
Acknowledging  that  "  God  is  Love." 

A  few  more  words,  friends,  in  your  ear, 
If  you  have  patience  still  to  hear. 
Scarce  has  Chicago's  tale  been  wrote 
Ere  comes  another  wailing  note, 
Flying  along  the  quivering  air 
Like  the  shriekings  of  despair — 
The  Athens  of  America 
In  part  in  ashes  lies  to-day. 
Her  songs  of  joy  are  now  unsung, 
Her  "  harp  is  on  the  willows  hung." 
Her  sacred  fanes  and  ancient  spires 
Lie  molten  by  the  liquid  fires  ; 
Burned  are  her  richest  marts  of  trade  ; 
Her  merchant  princes  have  been  made 
To  sit  in  sackcloth,  humbled,  dumb, 
Where  the  Destroyer's  feet  have  come. 
Again  the  tear  of  sorrow  flows 
Over  a  stricken  city's  woes. 
And  we  are  made  to  read  again 
Hieroglyphic  signs  more  plain 
Than  was  the  writing  on  the  walls 
Of  proud  Belshazzar's  palace  halls — 
Telling  the  world  man's  impotence 
When  God  let's  loose  the  elements. 
Again  kind  hearts  are  made  to  bleed, 
And  with  our  Heaveniy  Father  plead 
To  pity  show,  and  haste  to  bless 
Another  city  in  distress  ; 
Her  pleasant  walls  once  more  to  raise 
Surpassing  those  of  other  days  ; 


389 

While  slie,  in  heartfelt  thankfulness, 

Her  Chast'ner's  goodness  shall  confess 

And  show  the  world  in  lines  of  light 

How  Justice  bends  in  Mercy's  sight. 

Alas  !  the  flames  have  cast  their  sombre  palls 

Over  two  splendid  cities,  but  there  falls 

A  darker  shadow  on  our  Western  shore — 

The  wise  philanthropist  is  here  no  more  ; 

His  spirit  has  ascended  to  the  van 

Of  those  who  worked  and  died  from  love  of  man. 

And,  shame  !  the  men  he  wrought  for  drove  the  darfr 

That  clave  the  tendrils  of  his  broken  heart. 

Greclcy  "  the  Good"  will  stand  a  shining  name 

Written  in  gold  high  on  the  scroll  of  fame. 

For  though  in  former  years  he  erred  (we  thought), 

His  noble  deeds  can  never  be  forgot. 

His  "  clasping  hands  across  the  bloody  chasm  " 

Anointed  him  with  Love's  eternal  chrism. 

And  South  and  North,  and  East  and  West  will  mourn 

The  palsied  tongue  and  frame  in  Death's  cold  bourne, 

While  monumental  iron,  bronze  or  stone, 

For  perpetuity,  Tie  needeth  none. 


390 


THE  DYING  PAUPER. 

Hark  ye,  the  night-wind  ! 

Low  sighing,  sighing 
Over  the  lone  couch 

Of  a  poor  creature  dying  ! 
No  one  to  mourn  for  her 

Or  wipe  the  tear  starting — 
None  but  the  night-wind 

To  kiss  her  at  parting. 

Long  time  the  life-blood 

In  her  young  breast  was  drying  ; 
Heart-sick — with  coldness  chilled-— 

Worn  out  with  crying. 
No  one  to  comfort  her 

With  the  milk  of  love  flowing— 
None  but  the  night-wind 

To  sigh  for  her,  going. 

Hush  ye  !  the  last  breath 

From  the  frail  one  is  fleeing — • 
Life  hath  forsaken 

The  poor  blighted  being. 
No  one  to  softly  press 

The  eyelids'  last  closing — 
None  but  the  night-wind 

To  watch  her  reposing. 

Soon  in  the  church-yard 
Her  form  will  lie  sleeping — 

No  one  will  care  to  know 
Of  her  soul's  keeping. 


391 

None  but  the  night-wind  saw 
Her  angel-wing'd  spirit 

Soar  through  the  ether  blue, 
Bliss  to  inherit. 

So  those  despised  of  us 

Short-sighted  mortals 
May  reach  beyond  us,  up 

Through  heaven's  portals. 
Christ  judgeth  not  like  man — 

He  sees  their  sinning, 
All  their  temptations,  too, 

From  the  beginning. 

He  sifts  the  chaff  from  wheat, 

Knows  how  they've  suffered — 
Striving  for  work  or  aid, 

No  kindness  proffered. 
His  blood  can  cleanse  from  filth 

That  here  has  stained  them — 
Trials,  temptations  may 

Heaven  have  gained  them. 

Oh,  earth  has  many  sad, 

Weary  and  wasting, 
Struggling  for  breath  of  life, 

Naught  of  joy  tasting  ; 
But  there's  a  Home  for  them 

Over  the  River — 
There  the  freed  soul  shall  fly 

Back  to  its  Giver. 


392 


AUTUMN'S  SOUGHING  WINDS. 


The  soughing  winds  of  Autumn, 
How  saddening  is  their  wail ! 

As  if  cries  of  weeping  mourners 
Came  on  the  sighing  gale  ! 

As  if  the  groans  of  millions, 

In  passion  and  despair, 
Through  the  other  seasons  gathered, 

Freighted  the  Autumn  air  ! 

As  if  the  shadowy  armies 

Of  souls  of  the  unblest 
Were  rushing  wild  through  ether 

In  the  burden  of  unrest ! 

As  if  a  myriad  voices 

Pierced  through  the  glowering  skies, 
Plainting  of  deeper  ills  to  man 

Than  earth's  lost  Paradise  ! 

As  if  all  things  in  Nature 

Send  forth  a  woful  moan, 
Feeling  dire  retribution 

Falls  not  on  flesh  alone  ! 

As  if  lost  spirits  wailing 

In  Purgatorial  fires 
Had  somehow  made  these  doleful  blasts 

Their  telegraphic  wires  ! 


393 

As  if  the  conscience  writing 
With  sense  of  guilt  and  shame 

Was  shrieking  to  the  frenzied  brain 
Its  crimes  in  words  of  flame  ! 

As  if  a  world  of  warriors, 

With  battle-conflict  red, 
Were  tramping  nearer,  nearer, 

O'er  the  bodies  of  the  dead  ! 

The  soughing  winds  of  Autumn, 

With  suicidal  breath, 
How  to  the  sensate  mind  they  speak 

Of  sorrow,  sin,  and  death  ! 


394 


THE  ADIRONDACK^ 


I've  seen  the  "  Glory  of  the  hills,"  the  Adirondack  chain, 
I  floated  by  them  on  the  lake,  our  beautiful  Champlain  ; 
'Twas  in  this  fair  autumnal  time  of  rich  prismatic  dyes, 
And  never  such  a  sight  before  of  beauty  met  my  eyes  ! 

Point  after  point  in  light  and  shade  along  the  mountain 
range, 

Hill  after  hill  with  colors  flecked,  in  size  and  shape  a 
change ! 

Such  warp  and  woof  of  regal  garb  wove  by  the  Al- 
mighty's Hand 

No  beauteous  queen  hath  e'er  enrobed  this  side  of  Eden- 
land  ! 

The  leafy  crowns  that  deck  their  brows  all  kingly  crowns 
surpass, 

With  ruby,  emerald,  amethyst,  and  topaz  hues.     Alas  ! 

Why  thus  do  I  attempt  to  paint  their  more  than  marvel- 
ous sheen  ? 

The  "  Glory  of  the  hills,"  dear  Lord,  I  thank  thee  I  have 
seen  ! 

October  23,  1871. 


395 


WHAT  ARE  THE  OCEAN  WAVES  DOING. 

What !  oil,  what  are  the  ocean  waves  doing — 

Fretting  and  fuming,  or  tenderly  wooing  ? 

Are  they  raging,  or  sportively  playing — 

Hither  and  thither  swinging  and  swaying  ? 

Or  are  they  praising  in  rolling  numbers — 

Waking  the  sea-god  from  dreamy  slumbers  ? 

Or  are  they  wafting  their  incense  prayer 

To  the  Throne  round  which  crowned  angels  are  ? 

Or  are  they  chanting  a  requiem  grand 

O'er  the  loved  who  have  joined  the  seraphim  band  ! 

Or  do  they  raise  sad  voices  weeping 

O'er  the  early  dead  in  their  bosom  sleeping  ? 

Or  are  they  sighing  for  wrecks  ashore 

That  shall  never  dance  o'er  their  surges  more  ? 

Or  do  they  o'er  sinners  sorrowing  moan 

Who  die  unrepentant  with  none  to  atone  ? 

Or  are  they  wailing  'neath  the  wild  wind's  fierce  lashing, 

Roaring  and  surging,  with  thunderbolts  clashing, 

Till  the  seaman's  strength  fails  'mid  the  fury  and  strife, 

And  the  sailor  bold  quails  at  the  scene  with  death  rife, 

And  in  the  ship's  wake  horrid  sea  monsters  follow 

With  ravenous  jaws  far  open  to  swallow 

The  dying  and  deai  from  the  creaking  ship  dashed, 

By  the  mountainous  billows  that  the  proud  vessel  crashed. 

Or  are  they  striving  against  One  who  reigns, 

Writhing  and  heaving  to  loosen  their  chains  ! 

Boiling  and  foaming  and  cleaving  the  air, 

Cursing  their  bounds  with  the  strength  of  despair  ! 

Or  are  the  winds  stilled,  and  their  breasts  softly  heaving, 


396 

While  the  palace-like  bark  through  their  blue  tips  is 

cleaving 

(As  safe  as  if  sweet  angels  stood  at  the  helm, 
Letting  a  storm  ne'er  its  fair  deck  o'erwhelm), 
Gliding  in  peace  o'er  the  beautiful  sea, 
Or  dancing  its  waves  as  they  frolic  in  glee  ; 
While  the  rover  a  song  from  his  glad  heart  is  singing, 
As  o'er  its  glass  smoothly  his  way  he  is  winging, 
To  scenes  that  are  new,  or  to  home-scenes  and  places 
Where  his  soul  shall  be  charmed,  and  his  eye  see  loved 

faces. 

Oh,  what — tell  me,  what  are  the  ocean  waves  doing  ? 
To  danger  and  death  they  are  ever  awooing  ! 


THE  OLD  YEAR,  1872. 

The  old  year  has  gasped  out  the  last  gasp  of  death, 
The  young  year  is  breathing  of  life  the  first  breath  ; 
The  old  year  has  left  us  with  heirship  of  hope 
And  strength  in  the  battle  with  evil  to  cope. 

The  young  year  has  brought  what — kept  in  store  until 

now  ? 

Whether  promise  fulfilled,  or  the  heart's  broken  vow, 
Whether  life  with  its  thorns  intermingled  with  roses, 
Or  death  shall  be  ours — who  can  tell  till  it  closes  ? 


TO  COUSIN  MAY  C N. 

So,  May,  you  are  "  thirty  "  and  not  married  yet, 
"An  asthmatic,  old  banker  you'd  take,  could  you  get;" 
For  the  lawful  name  wife  and  a  pretty  long  purse 
You're  willing,  the  while,  to  be  sold  for  a  nurse. 

Ah,  May,  you  are  getting  you  're  pay  for  the  crime 
Of  the  cruel  heart-breakings  you've  done  in  your  time; 
Your  heart  must  have  grown  very  sordid  and  cold, 
Or  you'd  never  be  willing  to  marry  for  gold. 

But  then  you  are  "  thirty,"  you  say,  and  you  fear 
You'll  die  a  "  forsooken"  old  maid;  so,  my  dear, 
An  old,  asthmatic  husband  you  prefer  to  the  sin 
Of  woful  old  maidenhood. . .  .then  there's  the  "  tin." 

Oh,  well,  I  can't  blame  you,  for  't  is  a  disgrace — 
Though  I  really  don't  like  so  to  say  to  your  face — 
But 't  is  a  disgrace  none  can  ever  o'erlook 
For  a  woman  from  nobody's  ribs  to  be  took. 

Though  if  you're  but  thirty,  you're  foolish  to  fret, 
To  meet  with  you're  Adam  there's  time  enough  yet; 
I  look  for  mine  daily,  I'm  sure  he's  alive, 
I'm  in  nowise  discouraged,  though  I'm  most  thirty- 
five. 


This  and  a  greater  part  of  the  following  pieces  were  written 
tefore  the  war. 


398 


SING  ON,  SWEET  RILL, 

Sing  on,  sweet  rippling  rill, 

Thou  mind'st  me  of  the  hours 
When,  in  a  cot  behind  a  hill, 
By  such  another  rippling  rill, 
I  strewed  life's  rosy  flowers. 

Flow  on,  sweet  wavelet,  flow; 

I  bathe  my  brow  in  thee, 
As  I  was  wont  to,  long  ago, 
In  such  a  wavelet  that  did  flow 

When  I  from  care  was  free. 

Glide  on,  sweet  streamlet,  glide, 

Beneath  pale  moon  and  star; 
Thou  'rt  like  a  streamlet  when  a  bride 
I  roved  by,  happy  by  his  side, 
Now  gone  to  realms  afar. 


THE  LITTLE  BEGGAR  BOY. 

"  Lady,  I  am  cold  and  hungry, 
Mother's  sick  and  very  poor, 
And  of  bread  there's  not  a  mouthful, 
of  meat,  inside  our  door. 


"  Two  whole  days  we've  tasted  nothing, 

For  we'd  not  a  cent  to  buy, 
And  I  hated  to  go  begging, 

But  I  can't  have  mother  die. 

"  Mother  used  to  go  out  washing 

After  father  died,  and  leave 
Me  and  sister,  all  so  lonely, 

Through  her  absent  hours  to  grieve. 

"  But  she  bought  us  food  and  clothing 
"With  the  pittance  that  she  earned; 

Now,  in  pain,  she  lies  a  moaning, 
And  the  fagots  lowly  burned. 

11  Little  sister  sits  a  weeping, 

In  the  corner  of  the  room  — 
I'm  afraid  she'll  freeze  and  starve  there, 

In  our  cold  and  scanty  home! 

"  Please,  kind  lady,  give  us  something, 

If  't  is  but  a  crust  of  bread, 
And  a  sixpence  to  buy  fuel, 

Or  my  mother  will  be  dead. 


400 

*  And  my  almost  baby  sister — 

Oh,  she  is  so  very  dear; 
I  can  never  live  to  see  her 
Stretched  upon  the  funeral  bier! 

"  True,  I'm  now  a  little  beggar, 
But  if  God  will  let  me  live, 

And  my  mother,  and  my  sister, 
I'll  repay  the  gifts  you  give. 

"  Father  said  when  he  was  dying, 
God  would  guard  us  if  we  prayed ; 

And  my  mother  has  us,  kneeling, 
Ask  of  Him  '  our  daily  bread.' 

"  But  I  think  He  does  not  hear  us, 

For  he  seems  so  far  away — 
And  we've  kept  a  growing -poorer, 

And  more  hungry  every  day." 

To  these  touching  words  I  listened, 
Then  I  donned  my  cloak  and  hood, 

And  I  followed  the  boy-pleader 
To  the  border  of  a  wood. 

There,  within  a  leaky  hovel, 

Scarce  a  mile  from  my  own  door, 

Lived,  or  rather  barely  lingered, 
Those  described  so  very  poor. 

True,  but  faint,  was  traced  the  picture 
Of  those  human  beings'  fare; 

But  God  heard  the  boy's  petition, 
And  that  suffering  mother's  prayer. 

Food  and  clothing,  quick,  He  sent  them, 
And  the  fagot  blazed  once  more 


401 

On  their  lonely  hearth ;  for  kind  hearts 
Lent  a  hand  to  aid  the  poor. 

And  with  kindly  care  and  nursing, 
That  boy's  mother  health  regained; 

And  his  little,  loving  sister 
Weeps  no  more  with  hunger  pained. 

Ah,  my  friends,  how  little  know  we 
Of  the  scenes  of  want  so  near; 

List  the  beggar's  plaintive  story, 
Ladies,  with  a  pitying  ear. 

Let  us  as  a  band  of  sisters 

Help  to  lighten  their  distress — 

Woman  in  her  sphere  of  kindness 
Many  wrongs  may  yet  redress. 

Soothing  words  and  kind  endeavors 

Is  the  glory  of  her  brow; 
At  the  fireside,  not  the  forum, 

Woman's  worth  will  fairest  glow. 


Childless  wives  and  maiden  ladies, 
Who  have  time  and  "wealth  to  spare, 

Earth  has  plenty  of  God's  children 
Worthy  of  your  goods  to  share. 

Little,  hungry,  barefoot  beggars, 
With  hearts  true  and  warm  and  brave, 

Like  this  noble  little  fellow, 
From  destruction  you  might  save. 

And  with  teachings  true  and  tender 
Rear  them  to  respect  our  cries, 


402 

For,  perchance,  our  legislators 
From  their  ranks  may  yet  arise. 

So,  that  in  the  good  time  coming, 
We,  for  "  rights,"  no  more  shall  sue, 

For,  like  men  of  worth  and  wisdom, 
They  shall  give  us  woman's  due. 

That  poor  boy,  so  lately  starving, 
Shiv'ring  with  the  cold  intense, 

As  he  stood  upon  our  door-sill, 
Has  a  soul  worth  more  than  pence. 

Money  could  not  buy  his  spirit, 
Though  his  body  it  might  feed, 

For  his  mind  was  stamped  with  honor, 
Though  his  frame  was  shrunk  with  need. 

So,  my  sisters,  from  the  quarry 

Of  the  poor  we  yet  may  hew 
Men  to  be  our  legislators, 

Who  will  give  us  woman's  due. 


'T  IS    SWEET. 

'T  is  sweet  to  have  some  one  to  love  thee; 

Through  the  oft-changing  scenes  of  this  life, 
'T  is  bliss  to  know  one  loved  would  shield  thee, 

Though  darkness  and  dangers  were  rife. 

'T  is  sweet  to  have  some  one  to  love  thee ; 

When  pleasure-beams  brighten  the  day, 
"T  is  bliss  to  have  one  whom  thou  prizest 

Walk  with  thee  the  roseate  way. 


403 


'T  is  sweet  to  have  some  one  to  love  thee; 

When  thy  sorrow-brimmed  cup  overflows, 
When  thy  head  droopeth  wearily  downward, 

'Tis  bliss  on  his  breast  to  repose. 

'T  is  sweet  to  have  some  one  to  love  thee; 

Should  evil  report  mar  thy  fame, 
'T  is  bliss  to  know  one  would  stand  by  thee, 

Though  all  others  spurn  thee  and  blame. 

'T  is  sweet  to  have  some  one  to  -love  thee; 

When  Death  lays  thee  low  on  the  bier, 
'T  is  bliss  to  know  'one's  lips  will  murmur 

Another  were  never  so  dear. 

'T  is  sweet  to  have  some  one  to  love  thee; 

When  thy  spirit  has  soared  to  the  skies, 
'T  is  bliss  to  know  one  heart  will  miss  thee, 

And  tears  damp  the  grave  from  his  eyes. 


Nov.,  1858. 


404 


THE  ORPHAN  BOY. 


A    STORY    IN    VERSE. 


The  wind  was  very  sharp  and  chill, 

And  blowing  with  its  might, 
And-eveiy  thing  that  shelter  had 

Had  sought  it  for  the  night, 
When,  sliiv'ring,  came  unto  pur  door, 

With  feet  all  red  and  bare, 
And  tattered  clothes,  and  drops  of  rain 

Thick  frozen  in  his  hair, 
A  little  pale-faced,  mild-eyed  boy — 

He  asked  "  please  may  I  come 
And  warm  me  by  your  kitchen  fire, 

I  feel  so  cold  and  numb." 

I  led  him. to  the  blazing  hearth — 

Tea  was  not  cleared  away— 
lie  looked  so  wishful  at  the  board 

I  could  not  say  him  nay; 
I  bade  him  warm  his  little  toes 

And  fingers  at  his  will, 
Then  take  of  supper  that  was  left 

Till  he  had  had  his  fill; 
And  by  the  fire  I'd  make  a  bed, 

I  said,  for  him  that  night, 
And  then  his  hist'ry  he  might  tell 

When  came  the  morning  light. 

"  Dear  lady,  you  are  very  kind," 
He  cried,  through  choking  sighs, 

While  grateful  dews  fell  on  his  cheeks, 
That  gathered  in  his  eyes; 


405 

"  But  let  me  tell  my  story  now, 

'T  will  add  a  little  joy 
To  know,  to-niglit,  there's  one  to  feel 

For  a  poor  orphan  boy. 

"  Father  was  kind,  but  long  lay  sick, 

Before  he  went  to  heaven; 
And  from  that  home  where  we  had  liv'd 

Mother  and  I  were  driven; 
But  mother  found  another  home, 

Tho'  not  so  large  and  warm, 
Yet  it  was  snug  enough  to  keep 

Us  sheltered  from  the  storm;  v 

And  there  she  sought,  with  fingers  worn, 

To  earn  our  daily  bread; 
But  overwork  and  racking  cough 

Soon  laid  her  with  the  dead. 

"  So  I  am  now  an  orphan  boy, 

With  none  to  love  me  more, 
And  sometimes  I  am  very  cold 

And  hunger  very  sore; 
And  then  I  wish  that  I  had  died 

That  night  when  mother  died; 
I  should  not  starve  nor  feel  the  cold 

When  sleeping  by  her  side. 
I'd  very  gladly  work  and  earn 

My  food  and  clothing,  too; 
But  when  I  seek  they  look  so  strange 

And  ask,  c  What  can  you  do?' 
Oh,  if  I  live  to  be  a  man, 

I'll  try  and  help  the  poor; 
I  never  shall  forget  how  much 

I've  suffered,  I  am  sure." 
*  *****  * 

Long  years  had  passed  since  I'd  recalled 
To  mind  the  orphan  boy — 


406 

Changes  had  come,  and  with  them  I 

Had  lost  my  earthly  joy; 
But  he  had  left  for  my  support 

A  widow's  bounteous  share, 
So  that,  a  while,  of  poverty 

I  had  no  thought  or  care: 
But  unjust  men,  with  grasping  hand, 

And  law's  unlawful  power, 
Essay'd,  ere  long,  unblushingly, 

To  rob  me  of  my  dower. 

A  distant  judge,  for  wisdom  fam'd, 

'Had  heard  the  wicked  deed, 
And,  all  unask'd,  one  day  he  came 

And  craved  my  cause  to  plead. 
He  had  a  noble,  lofty  brow, 

And  form  of  godlike  mien — 
I  little  dreamed  that  ere  before 

His  visage  I  had  seen; 
He  plead  the  widow's  cause  and  won, 

No  recompense  he'd  take: 
"  You  shelter'd  a  poor  orphan  boy, 

I  did  it  for  his  sake; 
Behold  in  me  that  orphan  boy: 

The  bread  on  waters  cast, 
Though  quite  forgot,"  he  smiling,  said, 

"  Shall  be  returned  at  last." 


407 


FOR  THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY,  1850. 

Hark!  hear  our  nation's  welkin  ring 

From  broad  Pacific's  streams  to  Maine ! 
'T  is  Liberty,  the  song  we  sing, 
^      And  millions  swell  the  glad  refrain. 

No  craven  here  quails  'neath  the  might 
Of  Tyranny's  relentless  nod — 

From  vale  and  hill  and  mountain  height, 
Our  thanks  go  upward  to  our  God! 

We  thank  Him  for  this  festal  day — 
It  is  our  nation's  natal  hour — 

We  thank  Him  that  His  hand  did  stay 
The  Tyrant  in  his  greenly  power. 

We  thank  Him  for  that  patriot  name, 
So  dear  to  every  freeman's  heart ! 

Great  Washington  !  shall  sound  thy  fame, 
Till  time  and  tide  and  earth  depart  ! 

We  thank  Him  for  this  Heritage, 
For  which  our  brave  forefather's  bled; 

And  that  we  live  in  this  bless'd  age, 
Where  Liberty  and  Justice  wed. 

Then  louder  let  the  anthem  roll  ! 

And  wave  our  country's  banner  higher, 
Till  Right  and  Freedom  Avin  each  soul 

To  burn  with  patriotic  fire. 


408 

Let  our  proud  eagle  flap  her  wing, 
Exulting  in  our  nation's  powers  ! 

Let  shouts  of  joy  re-echoed  ring 
O'er  this  vast  continent  of  ours  ! 

Spirits  of  seventy-six,  come  forth  ! 

Join  in  the  grand,  triumphal  strain  ! 
Sing,  East  and  West,  and  South  and  North 

Our  Union  firm,  for  aye,  remain. 


THE  NOBLE   FIREMAN. 

The  stately  mansion  was  ablaze, 
The  wreathing  flames  raged  wild, 

A  piercing  cry  came  on  the  wind 
"  Oh,  God,  save  my  child!" 

What  did  that  shrieking  mother  care 
For  mines  of  wealth  then  spoiled  ! 

'T  was  not,  "  My  gold  and  jewels  spare  !" 
'T  was  "  God,  save  my  child  !" 

The  firemen  did  their  engines  ply, 

With  "  might  and  main  "  they  toiled, 

Yet  still,  above  the  din,  rose  high, 
"  Oh,  God,  save  my  child  !" 

Say,  mid  the  thousands  gathered  there, 
Drawn  by  that  shriek  so  wild, 

Was  there  no  ear  to  heed  the  prayer, 
"  Oh,  God,  save  my  child!" 


409 

Aye,  one  sprang  from  the  gaping  crowd 

Whose  suit  shs  once  reviled ; 
Tho'  poor  in  purse,  with  soul  emlow'd, 

He'd  die  to  save  her  child. 

Quick,  quick  as  thought,  the  wall  he  scal'd 

Where  hissing  waters  boil'd, 
And  while  each  gazer's  visage  pal'd, 

Ha  sought  the  sleeping  child. 

Thro'  fire  and  smoke  and  sash  he  dash'd, 

With  effort  seeming  wild, 
And  snatch'd  unto  his  breast  the  boy; 

God  saved  man  and  child. 

But  where  was  he  whose  name  she  bore, 
Whose  weallh  her  heart  beguil'd  ! 

He  raved,  his  losses  brooding  o'er, 
Heedless  of  wife  or  child. 


THE  WARM  WEATHER  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 


The  warm  weather's  coming, 

The  brisk  bee  is  humming, 
The  shrubs  and  the  tall  trees  are  budding  to-day. 

The  valleys  are  greening, 

And  the  hill-tops  are  sheening 
In  the  dew  and  the  sunshine  that  beckon  sweet  May. 

All  nature  is  singing; 

The  wood-birds  are  winging 
From  woodland  to  woodland,  from  tree-top  to  brake. 

The  wild  fowl  is  soaring 

O'er  the  deep  waters  roaring, 
And  the  swan  and  her  young  brood  are  skimming  the  lake. 


410 

The  cattle  are  sunning 

In  the  fields  by  the  running 
And  laughing  and  leaping  and  frolicsome  rill, 

And  the  lambkins  are  playing, 

And  up  and  down  straying, 
On  the  soft,  sunny  side  of  the  neighboring  hill. 

The  wise  man  is  raising 

His  full  heart  and  praising 
The  Maker  and  Giver  of  all  of  life's  worth; 

He  is  plowing  and  hoeing, 

And  planting  and  sowing, 
In  due  time  to  reap  the  good  fruits  of  the  earth. 

The  warm  weather's  coming, 

The  brisk  bee  is  humming, 
And  the  wild  birds  are  winging  from  tree-top  to  brake; 

The  cattle  are  grazing 

And  the  good  man  is  praising 
Him  whom  from  its  sleep  doth  the  earth  again  wake. 


THE  WINTRY  WINDS;  OR,  THE  WIDOW'S  LAST 
PRAYER. 


Are  ye  angry,  ye  winds— 

Or,  why  blow  so  wild  ? 
Cease — cease  your  loud  raging, 

Thin  clad  is  my  child; 
And  our  hut  here,  so  lonely, 

Is  leaky  and  old: 
Blow  softly,  blow  gently, 

Or  she'll  die  with  the  cold  ! 


411 

Oh  !  why  are  ye  angry, 

Ye  winds,  with  my  dove  ? 
She's  pure  as  the  snow-flake. 

That  falls  from  above  ! 
And  she  loved  you,  when  warmly 

Ye  blew  o'er  the  wold: 
Blow  softly,  blow  gently, 

Or  she'll  die  with  the  cold  ! 


O  God  !  listen  to  me — 

Heed — heed  my  prayer; 
She's  all  I  have  left  me — 

Oh,  spare  her  !  oh,  spare  ! 
Or  if  thou  wilt  take  her, 

That  hour,  do  I  pray, 
Free  my  sorrow-bowed  soul 

From  its  fetters  of  clay. 

She's  dying  !    The  cold  winds 

Still  pitiless  blow 
Through  the  old,  leaky  hovel, 

And  pile  high  the  snow; 
They  care  not  for  sorrow — 

They  shrink  not  for  dearth; 
But  wilder  they  blow 

O'er  the  dark,  fireless  hearth. 

She's  dead  ! — closely  lock'd 

In  the  widow's  embrace. 
With  hand  clasped  in  hand, 

And  face  close  to  face, 
The  mother  and  child 

Have  gone  up  ward  to  God; 
And,  together,  their  bodies 

Will  rest  'neath  the  sod  ! 


412 

Blow  on,  then,  yc  winds  ! 

Ye  can  chill  them  no  more — • 
Blow  wildly,  and  bold, 

Through  the  old  hovel  door: 
Ye  may  howl — yc  may  shriek — 

Ye  may  freeze  with  your  cold; 
But  the  mother  and  babe 

Are  safe  in  Christ's  hold  ! 


OUR  SAILOR-BOY,  SHERIDAN. 

Oh,  tell  me,  ye  waves  of  Atlantic's  vast  tide, 
Where  the  form  of  our  lost  one  lies  sleeping  ! 

Though  long  years  have  passed  since  our  sailor-boy  died, 
Our  eyes  dry  not  yet  of  their  weeping. 

Oh,  tell  me  ye  winds,  that  have  swept  o'er  the  wave, 
And  have  searched  through  the  wild  roaring  billow, 

Beneath  what  mild  star,  in  what  deep  ocean-cave 
Did  our  sailor-boy  press  his  cold  pillow! 

Thou   once  pride   of    our  household — lost    joy   of    our 

hearth, 

Who  far  from  thy  kindred  art  sleeping, 
Did  thy  cherished  form  lay  'neath  some  green  mound  of 

earth, 
Our  eyes  had  long  dried  of  their  weeping. 

But  to  know  that  the  bones  of  our  sailor-boy  bleach 
In  some  grave  'neath  the  deep  waters'  rolling, 

Which  no  eye  can  discern,  where  no  footstep  can  reach, 
In  our  ears  keeps  the  death-bell  a  tolling. 


413 

Oh!  little  ken  they,  who  can  stand  by  the  stone 

That  mark  by  the  buried  one  keepeth, 
Of  the  wailings  of  grief  for  the  grave,  all  unknown, 

Of  him  who  in  ocean's  bed  slecpeth. 

I  hear,  when  I  list,  the  wild  dirge  of  the  wave, 
Rolling  forth  in  its  sorrow-wreathed  numbers, 

And  I  chill  as  I  think  of  the  waters  that  lave 
Our  sailor-boy  in  his  last  slumbers. 

Dark,  dark  was  the  day,  and  it  near  crazed  the  brain, 
When  we  heard  the  sad  tale  of  his  dying; 

And  our  poor  bleeding  hearts  heal  not  yet  of  their  pain, 
Nor  our  tcar-bedimmed  eyes  of  their  crying. 

For  our  lov'd  one  died  far  from  the  friends  he  held  dear, 
With  no  kind  hand  to  smooth  his  lone  pillow, 

No  fond  one  to  drop  on  his  wan  brow  a  tear, 
Ere  they  flung  his  pale  corse  in  the  billow. 

They  said  that  he  died  with  home-thoughts  round  his 
heart, 

Calling  "  father,"  and  "  sister,"  and  "  brother," 
But  the  name  on  his  lips  when  his  soul  did  depart 

Was  that  dearest  and  sweetest  name — "  Mother." 

He  now  hath  slept  years  in  the  deep,  our  dear  boy, 
But  when  earth  by  the  last  trump  is  shaken, 

We  that  mourn  him  will  fold  in   our  arms  our  lost  joy, 
For  the  dead  of  the  sea  shall  awaken. 


414 


THE  LOST  ONE. 


No  likeness  sketched  by  painter's  art, 
Nor  lock  of  hair  from  his  fair  brow; 

Naught,  save  the  memories  in  my  heart, 
Is  left  of  him  to  cherish  now. 

Oil,  he  was  dear  to  me,  my  own  ! 

Earth  seemed  so  bright  when  he  was  near; 
But  joy  was  fled  when  he  was  gone, 

And  sunshine  mocked  the  darkness  here — 

Here  on  my  soul  thick  shadows  fell, 
My  heart  became  a  withered  thing, 

For,  from  a  foreign  soil,  the  knell 
Of  death  left  in  its  depths  a  sting. 

Oh,  when  the  light  of  love  is  lied, 
And  hope  lies  crushed  within  the  breast, 

And  the  world-weary  droops  her  head, 
And  hourly  pines  to  be  at  rest, 

What  earthly  charm  again  can  lure 
The  eye  to  smile,  the  heart  to  leap! 

What  earthly  medicine  can  cure, 
Or  lull  the  pangs  of  grief  to  sleep ! 


415 


I'M  GROWING   OLD. 


I'm  growing  old,  and  I  do  weep  at  thought 
That  the  sweet  freshness  of  my  youth  lias  fled; 

That  simple  purity  with  youth  inwrought 

Leaves  no  bright  halo  round  my  drooping  head. 

I'm  growing  old;  my  girlhood's  days  have  flown, 
And  on  my  matron  brow  are  lines  of  care; 

The  sunny  look  of  early  times  has  gone; 
Amid  my  locks  I  find  my  first  grey  hair. 

Unconscious  thread!  I'd  pluck  thee,  if  't  would  wipe 
From  mem'ry's  page  the  wrongs  of  vanished  years, 

Or  lop  their  number — and  thou  tiny  stripe 
Would  perish  with  these  overflowing  tears. 

But  here,  or  gone,  thou  canst  not  alter  time, 
For  Time  and  Care  have  had  thee  in  their  power; 

Thou  art  the  witness  in  this  lower  clime 
Of  the  sad  changes  of  Life's  fleeting  hour. 

But  though  Time  marks  me  as  it  onward  flies, 
Still  doth  the  rainbow  Hope  oft  clearer  shine, 

Athrough  the  waters  of  my  tear-dimmed  eyes, 
As  nearer  reach  I  to  the  Home  divine. 

And  when  the  tempests  of  my  soul  surge  high 
In  sorrow's  waves,  over  my  saddened  way, 

I  lift  my  eyes  of  Faith  toward  the  sky, 

And  feel  there's  joy  for  me  in  Heaven  for  aye. 


416 


WHEN  SHALL  I  SEE  THEE. 

When  shall  I  see  thee!  notcst  thou  the  hour 
When  I  shall  leave  tins  tenement  of  clay! 

Hast  thou,  departed,  the  foreseeing  power, 

That  thou  canst  tell  when  comes  the  joyful  day! 

When  will  thy  loving  hand  clasp  mine  once  more, 
When  shall  I  hear  again  thy  voice  so  dear, 

Oh,  when  shall  we  together  tread  that  shore 
Of  which  we  converse  held  when  thou  wert  here! 

Lov'd  spirit!  clost  thou  know  how  fondly  oft 

My  thoughts  do  turn  to  thee  though  thou  art  fled! 

Canst  thou  look  on  me  from  thy  home  aloft, 
And  markest  thou  the  tears  I  for  thee  shed! 

Yet  not  for  thee,  't  is  for  myself,  blest  shade, 
That  I  do  mourn  and  weep  thine  absence  here — 

I  miss  thy  earthly  presence  that  erst  made 
All  things  so  beautiful  when  thou  wert  near. 

I  miss  thy  love-lit  eye's  soft,  earnest  gaze, 

Showing  sweet  pity  when  thou  found'st  me  sad; 

I  miss  thy  well-timed  counsels  and  thy  praise — 
The  one  to  make  me  wise,  the  other  glad; 

I  miss  those  pleasant  walks  at  twilight  time, 
When  all  thy  words  were  music  to  my  ears; 

When  I  forgot  all  woes  'neath  starry  clime, 

Till  my  dark  locks  were  heavy  with  night's  tears. 

I  miss  thee,  and  I  long  to  look  again 
Upon  thy  face  tho'  }t  is  in  Spirit  Land; 


417 


When  shall  I  feel  no  more  the  parting  pain, 
And  take  no  more,  for  aye,  the  parting  hand! 

Once  ever  near  thee,  now  forsaken,  lone, 
Up  Heavenward  I  turn  a  wistful  eye ; 

More  keenly,  day  by  day,  I  mourn  thee  gone, 
And  long  beside  thee  in  the  grave  to  lie. 


OUR  SISTER. 


We  had  a  sister,   days  agone,   young,   beautiful,    and 

sprightly; 
She  was  the  sunshine  of  our  cot,  wherein  hearts  once 

beat  lightly. 
Her  form  was  lithesome  as  the  fawn's;  her  skin  of  lily 

whiteness; 
Her  eyes  wero  like  the  stars  above,    outrivaling   their 

brightness; 

Her  shining  hair  was  amber-hued,  and  on  her  neck  lay 

braided; 
And  'neath  her  eyelid's  silken  lash  her  rose-tinged  check 

lay  shaded; 
Her  voice  was  musical  as  birds  that  sing  in  woodland 

bowers; 
Her  ruby  lips  were  sweet  with  dew,  as  nectar  in  the 

flowers; 

Her  breath,  like  fragrant  perfume,  came  through  pearly 
portals  slipping; 

Her  footsteps,  ready  at  each  call,  were  ever  gayly  trip- 
ping; 

And  smiles  played  on  her  happy  face,  reflecting  love's 
light  round  her; 

And  never  did  she  cast  a  shade  till  Death's  white  robe 
had  bound  her. 


418 

Her  mind  was  innocent  and  pure  —a  gem  dropped  down 

from  Heaven — 
And  through  the  windows  of  her  soul  shone  like  the 

"Star  of  Even;" 
No  mortal  ever  lived,  methinks,  with  slighter  faults  and 

fewer, 
And  with  her  many  winsome  ways  she  won  all  hearts 

unto  her. 

Oh,  gentle  as  a  dove  was  she  and  pleasant  as  the  morn- 
ing, 

Whose  dancing  sunbeams  kiss  the  dew,  each  vale  and 
hill  adorning; 

Her  heart  was  like  a  laughing  rill,  with  joyousness  o'er- 
flowing, 

Refreshing  all  within  its  reach,  as  on  its  pathway  going. 

But,  ah,  the  day!  this  sister  dear,  when  Autumn  leaves 

were  falling, 
Too  lovely  for  this  nether  sphere,  did  hear  the  angels 

calling; 
And  then,  from  out  our  earth-home  paled  the  sunlight  of 

our  gladness, 
And  naught  but  memories  of  her  gone,  cheer  now  our 

night  of  sadness 

So  wait  we  on  the  dismal  shore,  to  cross*  the  dreaded 

river, 
And  listen  for  the  dipping  oars  that  in  the  dark  waves 

quiver; 
And  bend  the  ear  and  hush  the  breath,  to  hear  from 

shining  portals 
The  Heaven-winged  spirit  calling  us  to  join  the  blest 

immortals. 

And  there's  another,  more  than  friend,  whose  heart  was 
buried  with  her, 


419 

« 
He  daily  feels  her    presence    near,    his    spirit   wooing 

thither;    . . 
And  not  in  vain  her  winning  call,  fast  fading  from  our 

vision, 

He  soon  will  greet  our  angel  one  within  the  Land  Ely- 
sian. 

1850. 


WE  'RE  DREAMING. 


We  're  dreaming  of  a  happier  Land,  far,  far  away, 
With  skies   serene  and  zephyrs  bland,  where  cooling 

fountains  play; 
We  're  dreaming  of   its  spicy  groves,  which  scent  the 

balmy  air, 
And  of  its  shady,  vine-clad  bowers,  laden  with  fruitage 

rare. 

We  're  dreaming  of   gay,  starry  birds,  amid  its   olive 

trees, 
Warbling  their  sweetest  choral  songs  upon  the  perfumed 

breeze; 
We  're  dreaming  of   the  beauteous  flowers  that  gem  its 

emerald  dales, 
Whose  nectar  gorgeous  insects  sip,  ne'er  seen  in  earthly 

vales. 

We  're  dreaming  of  its  city,  walled  around  with  precious 

stone, 
Emitting  hues  more  brilliant  than  a  burning  rainbow 

zone; 
With    sunbright   arches,   pearly  gates,   and    streets    of 

golden  pave, 
And  crystal  streams  and  lakes  wherein  the  white-winged 

angels  lave. 


420 

We  're  dreaming  of  a  gracious  King  upon  its  sapphire 
throne, 

Swaying  the  countless,  joyous  hosts  with  words  of  gen- 
tle tone; 

Love  beams  beneath  His  star-gemmed  crown,  upon  his 
Godlike  brow, 

And  dignity  and  purity  on  every  feature  glow. 

Bright  beings  round  Him  worshiping,  in  rapture  bend 

the  knee, 
And  sing  glad  songs  of  praise,  and  wave  their  palms  of 

victory. 
We  're  dreaming  that  we  join  the  band  that  tread  that 

joyous  shore, 
Or  spread  their  fleecy  wings  at  will  and  roam  creation 

o'er; 

Or  swell,  with  voices  silvery  sweet,  the  anthem  pealing 

"  high, 
Rolling  along,  in  rapturous  strains,  through   Heaven's 

resplendent  sky; 
Or  touch  with  skill  the  golden  harps  that  softest  music 

make — 
We  're  dreaming — cease!    we  still  tread  earth — awake! 

sad  hearts,  awake! 

Nor  vainly  strive  with  mortal  powers  to  picture  heavenly 
bliss, 

"  JZyc  ha:h  not  seen  nor  heart  conceived "  Heaven's^ 
depths  of  happiness; 

Then  let  us  work  while  yet  we  may,  to  reach  that  un- 
seen shore: 

This  life  is  our  soul's  trial-time,  let's  pass  it  bravely  o'er. 


421 


OUR  OWN  DEAD. 


Softly,  softly,  lay  her  body  to  rest! 
Gently,  gently  cross  her  hands  on  her  breast! 
Tenderly,  tenderly  smooth  her  hair  o'er  her  brow! 
Lovingly,  tearfully  gaze  on  her  now. 

Oh,  she  was  fairer  than  Spring-time's  first  flower! 
Oh,  she  was  dearer  than  light  in  our  bower! 
And  she  was  lovely  when  life  lit  her  eye 
As  the  prettiest  star  in  a  Summer-eve  sky. 

When  she's  laid  down  in  earth's  bosom  to  rest, 
Then  we  shall  envy  the  turf  o'er  her  breast; 
With  tears  we  will  water  the  grass  growing  green, 
When  we  stand  by  her  grave  in  the  moon's  silver 
sheen. 

But  we'll  believe  that  her  spirit,  betimes, 

Comes  back  to  see  us  from  happier  climes; 

We'll    list    for    her  whisper  when  dew  gems    the 

flowers, 
And  talk  with  her  sweetly  in  night's  stilly  hours. 

Oft  her  white  wings  will  enfold  our  sad  hearts, 
Oft  her  soft  hand  wipe  the  tear-drop  that  starts: 
Bright  angels  will  guard  her  up  and  down  on  the 

road 
That  leads  from  the  earth  to  her  blissful  abode. 

Softly,  O  softly,  then  lay  her  to  rest! 
Gently,  O  gently,  cross  her  hands  on  her  breast! 
Lovingly,  tenderly  smooth  her  hair  o'er  her  brow! 
Hopefully,  trustfully  gaze  on  her  now. 


422 
T,HE  ANGELS  CAME  FOR  HER. 

The  angels  came  for  her — 

Our  beautiful  one! 
In  the  light  of  her  morning — 

At  set  of  the  sun; 
And  they  wafted  her  upward 

On  pinions  of  Love, 
And  she  left  us  a  weeping — 

Our  darling,  our  dove. 

Beloved  of  the  angels, 

They  could  spare  her  no  more, 
Lest  she'd  struggle  and  faint 

On  earth's  wearisome  shore; 
So  they  wooed  her  and  won  her 

Away  from  our  nest, 
And  her  bird-notes  are  warbled 

On  her  good  Savior's  breast. 

So  gently  they  took  her, 

She  smiled  as  she  passed 
From  our  arms  to  the  angels — 

That  smile  was  the  last 
"We  shall  evermore  see 

On  the  face  of  her  clay' 
"We  shall  sigh  for  its  light 

Till  we,  too,  pass  away. 

Yet  often  we'll  picture 

Our  bird  in  the  skies, 
Looking  lovingly  down 

With  her  star-beaming  eyes; 
And  we'll  think  on  the  air 

Comes  a  sweet,  child-like  tone 
From  the  lips  of  our  angel — 

Our  bright  one,  our  own. 


423 

The  angels  came  for  her, 

The  brightness  grew  dim, 
And  fainter  and  fainter 

The  seraphim's  hymn ; 
And  we  felt  that  the  spell 

Of  a  withering  blight 
Enshrouded  our  hearts 

With  the  darkness  of  night. 

Oh!  thou  sorrow-doomed  earth, 

Where  we  meet  but  to  part 
With  the  loveliest  blossoms 

That  twine  round  the  heart, 
Methinks  all  the  tears 

That  thy  mourners  have  shed 
Would  outnumber  the  grains 

Of  the  dust  that  we  tread. 

But  the  sighs  and  the  tears 

And  the  prayers  offered  up, 
Overflowing  the  brim 

Of  life's  bitter  cup, 
Will  be  turned  into  joys, 

Is  the  promise  that  's  giv'n, 
If  the  incense  ascends 

On  Faith's  wings  up  to  Heav'n. 


THEY  TELL  ME. 

They  tell  me  of  "  Death" 

Full  too  often  I  sing — 
Too  oft  strike  "  sad  "  notes 

On  my  lyre's  faltering  string! 
Yet  though  none,  save  the  wind, 

Should  list  to  my  dole, 
To  breathe  out  one's  plaint 

Brings  relief  to  the  soul. 


424 


PETITIONS. 


Petitions  are  not  vain — God  hears  our  cry 
When  we  lift  our  hearts  to  Him — by  and  by 
"We'll  learn  that  every  pious  tear  and  prayer 
Doth  shine  a  jewel  in  the  crown  we  wear — 

Wear,  by  and  by. 

"Ask  and  ye  shall  receive,"  in  the  Good  Book 
We  read,  as  on  the  precious  page  we  look; 
But  we  must  wait  till  God  sees  fit  to  give — 
It  may  not  be  till  we  in  glory  live — 

Live,  by  and  by. 

Then  pray  and  pray  and  weep,  if  it  needs  be, 
But  strive  for  patience,  since  God  heedeth  thee; 
The  more  we  kneel  and  turn  our  thoughts  to  Heaven, 
More  freely  will  the  boon  we  crave  be  given — 

Given,  by  and  by. 

Yet  let  us  feel,  in  very  truth,  to  say 
"  Thy  will  be  done."     lie  knoweth  best  the  way 
To  work  out  for  us  our  eternal  weal; 
He  knows  the  balm  that  will  our  heart-wounds  heal — 

Heal,  by  and  by. 


425 


DESPAIR  AND  PRAYER. 


O  God,  in. mercy  list  my  plaint,  I  pray; 

My  feet  within  a  darksome  path  now  tread, 
Not  e'en  one  smiling  heaven-beam  gilds  my  way: 
Faith's  light  is  fled. 

Despair  broods  o'er  my  soul  with  darkling  wing, 

My  head  droops  low  in  weariness  of  life; 
No  note  of  Hope's  sweet  song  my  pale  lips  sing, 
Chilled  in  the  strife. 

Mine  eyes,  with  wasting  tears,  fail  me  to  ope; 

In  my  seared  heart  life's  fount  is  almost  dry; 
Fainting  and  worn,  all  battle-stained,  I  grope, 
And  wish  to  die. 

Nor  near,  nor  far,  is  there  one  kindly  hand 

Ready  to  aid  me  in  my  sore  distress; 
Alone,  uncared  for,  on  the  brink  I  stand, 
All  pitiless. 

Prone  on  the  ground  and  broken  is  my  lute, 

No  answering  chord  vibrates  within  my  ear; 
Each  string,  o'erstrained  by  hapless  hands,  lies  mute, 
Not  now  to  cheer. 

O  God,  in  mercy,  bend  Thine  ear  I  pray, 

Let  one  sweet  heaven-beam  cheer  the  path  I  tread; 
Let  Faith  again,  with  a  pellucid  ray, 
Light  on  my  head. 


426 


Reach  forth  Thy  hand  and  mend  my  broken  lyre, 

And  let  its  soothing  chords  strike  on  my  ear; 
Fill  my  dark  soul  with  light  of  heavenly  fire! 
Kind  Father,  hear. 

Warm  these  chilled  lips,  with  living  coals  that  burn 

Upon  Thy  altar  of  forgiving  love; 
To  sing  again  sweet  songs  of  Thee  I  yearn — 

Father  above! % 

Thank  Heaven!  despair  has  waved  her  leaden  wing, 

A  glimmering  light  beams  on  my  darksome  way; 
A  little  song  of  Hope  again  I  sing, 
The  while  I  pray. 


THE  LAND  BEYOND. 

Thank  God!  there  &  a  land  beyond  the  grave, 
Where  weary  souls  may  find  a  blessed  rest; 

There  is  a  pityuig  Hand  stretch'd  forth  to  save, 
And  fold  the  longing  spirit  to  His  breast. 

Oh,  tell  me,  ye  great  hearts  which  beat  on  earth, 
Have  e'er  ye  known  an  hour  of  perfect  peace! 

Was  there  not  e'en  in  infancy  a  dearth 
Within  your  souls,  a  flutt'ring  for  release! 

When  brightest  sunbeams  light  the  hill  and  plain 
And  dance  upon  the  rivers  and  the  rills, 

Do  ye  not  feel,  like  some  dark,  surging  main, 

Mock'd  by  the  sunlight  that  the  green  earth  thrills! 

Say!  am  I  all  alone  in  my  unrest; 

Do  things  of  Time  suffice  your  hungry  souls! 
Does  mortal's  love — earth's  sweetest  gift  and  best — 

Leave  no  deep  void  as  Life  its  page  unrolls! 


427 


Oh,  earth  must  needs  be  weary  for  our  good; 

E'en  to  the  dearest  lov'd  there  must  be  times 
When  the  soul  yearns  for  purer  brotherhood, 

And  pants  to  fold  its  wings  in  happier  climes. 

But  what  to  the  un-\oved.  must  life  be  here! 

A  dark,  a  dreary  blank — a  sunless  wild — 
Without  one  tender  tone  the  breast  to  cheer — 

Kind  Heaven!  help  the  earth-neglected  child. 

I  do  believe  there  is  within  each  heart 

An  aching  void  which  naught  but  Heaven  can  fill; 
,-Oh,  then,  how  doubly  hard  to  bear  his  part 

Who  shrinketh,  too,  beneath  the  cold  world's  chill. 


tender  bud  here  wakens  to  a  flower, 
'  And  satiates  itself  with  sun  and  dew, 
And  glories  in  its  fullness  its  short  hour; 
But  man  has  yet  a  nobler  end  in  view. 

« 

A  something  higher,  holier,  beyond 
The  temporal,  he  reaches  to  attain ; 
But  the  immortal  part  must  burst  its  bond, 
And  soar  to  unknown  realms  its  goal  to  gain. 

Thank  God!  there  is  a  land  we  yet  may  win 
And  satisfy  the  yearnings  of  the  breast,  - 

Through  Jesus'  love  our  souls  may  enter  in 
And  sweetly  realize  the  Promised  Rest. 


428 


TO  THE  GRIEVING  SISTER. 


Tried  soul,  bestir  thee,  lest  thou  sink 

Beneath  the  rod; 
With  clearer  faith  look  upward — 

Lean  on  God. 

Cease,  cease  thy  vain  repinings, 

Lest  they  dry 
The  springs  of  life  within  thee, 

And  thou  die. 

Arouse  thy  sinking  energies, 

Thou'st  much  to  do — 
What  work  thy  hands  shall  find, 

With  might  pursue. 

Let  chast'nings  teach  thee  wisdom, 

'T  is  tl^eir  aim, 
To  save  thee  from  worse  sorrow, 

Guilt,  and  shame. 


BE  HAPPY. 

Be  happy!  be  happy! 

For  the  good,  life  is  bright; 
They  have  day-skies  of  sunshine 

And  star-beams  at  night; 
The  music  of  nature 

Enchants  their  glad  ear, 
And  its  beauties  entrance  them, 

For  the  "  good,"  life  has  cheer. 


429 

Be  happy!  be  happy! 

'T  is  the  grateful  are  blest, 
By  them  the  best  jcrys 

Of  the  earth  are  possessed. 
Lift  your  hearts  in  due  thanks 

To  the  Giver  above, 
And  you'll  bask  in  the  pure  beams 

Of  Hope,  Faith,  and  Love. 

Be  happy!  be  happy! 

Shut  the  cloud-land  from  view, 
And  look  where  the  sun 

Is,  for  aye,  shining  through; 
No  grumbler  can  enter 

The  gateway  of  Heaven, 
To  the  thankfully  happy 

Is  the  light  of  God  given. 


OH,  WHERE  ARE  THEY,  WHERE? 


Oh,  where  are  they,  where?  the  friends  that  were  dear; 
We  watch  for  their  coming,  but   they  come  no  more 

here; 

We  list  for  their  voices,  but  ever  in  vain — 
Shall  we  see  them  and  hear  them,  oh!  never  again! 

Kay,  here  nevermore  shall  our  longing  eyes  rest 
On  the  faces  of  those  we  held  dearest  and  best; 
No  more  shall  our  glad  ears  drink  in  the  fond  words 
That  thrilled  with  delight  our  heart's  tenderest  chords. 

But  where  are  they,  where?  we  ask  earth  and  seas! 
No  answer  is  borne  on  the  wings  of  the  breeze! 
Rocks,  mountains  and  caves,  in  re-echo  sigh,  Where? 
And  our  souls  whisper  to  us,  Not  there,  no,  not  there! 


430 

Oli,  where  are  they,  where?  we  ask  of  noonday! 
No  answer  comes  down  on  the  sun's  dazzling  ray; 
And  in  midnight's  still  hour  we  turn  to  the  sky, 
And  ask  moon  and  stars,  but  they  deign  no  reply. 

Oh,  where  are  they,  where?  ye  wise  of  earth  tell 
Where  our  dearly  beloved  who  have  "gone  before" 

dwell! 

In  fancy  ye  picture  the  Home  of  the  Blest, 
But  say,  do  ye  know  where  our  cherished  ones  rest? 

Kind  friends,  who  would  lighten  our  grief,  can  ye  say, 
To  what  blessed  spot  do  our  dead  flee  away? 
Ye  have  stood  where  the  forms  of  our  buried  ones  lie, 
Have  ye  traced  out  the  shore  where  their  winged  spirits 
hie? 

Oh,  where  are  they,  where?  tried  souls  discern  ye, 
Earth's  lost  one's  fair  Isle  on  Eternity's  sea? 
Ye  have  heard  of  a  far-away  Happier  Land — 
Have  ye  looked  upon  one  of  its  shadowy  band? 

Where  are  they,  oh,  where?  ye  sainted  ones,  come! 
Return,  for  a  while,  to  our  desolate  home! 

Sing  to  us  a  song  of  your  sanctified  Rest 

We  listen and  listen how  vain  the  request! 

Where  are  they?  oh,  tell  us,  we  plead  with  high  Heaven, 
At  morning,  at  noon,  and  at  darkling-browed  even; 
But  the  heavenly  hosts  from  the  bright  vales  look  down, 
And  breathe  to  our  spirits,  No  trust,  and  no  crown  ! 

Then  let  us  with  Hope's  glowing  eyes  look  above, 
And  "  trust "  in  the  mercy  of  Him  who  "  is  Love;" 
So  when  to  our  Savior's  bright  Home  we  repair, 
We  shall  see  them  and  know  them,  for  they  're  There, 
yes,  they  're  There. 


431 


OH!    CAN  THEY  FORGET? 


Oil,  do  they  e'er  think,  in  their  home  in  the  skies 
Of  the  earth-home  where  dwelt  they  in  childhood; 

Of  the  cottage  where  first  the  light  came  to  their  eyes, 
On  the  brink  of  the  stream  near  the  wildwood? 

Oh,  do  they  e'er  think  of  the  pleasant  playground, 

Just  back  of  the  neat  little  dwelling, 
Where  they  frolicked  so  oft,  all  so  joyful  each  sound, 

Save  that  of  the  ax  the  wood  felling? 

Oh,  do  they  e'er  think  of  the  hearth  where  at  eve 
They  gathered  when  wild  winds  were  chilling; 

Where  around  its  bright  blaze  they  bright  fancies  did 

weave, 
Or  over  their  school-tasks  were  drilling? 

Oh,  do  they  e'er  think  of  the  clear  running  brook, 
Where  oft  their  light  barque  was  seen  dancing; 

Where  they  angled  for  trout  with  the  worm-baited  hook, 
Through  its  waters  so  temptingly  glancing! 

Oh,  do  they  e'er  think  of  the  time  when  they  strayed 
On  the  side  of  the  neighboring  mountain, 

Plucking  wild  flowers  or  fruit,  or  repaired  to  the  shade 
Of  its  trees  by  the  cool,  crystal  fountain? 

Oh,  do  they  e'er  think  of  the  little  church  near, 

Whose  spire  still  points  toward  Heaven; 
Where  all  met  on  Sundays  the  tidings  to  hear 

How  a  Savior  to  sinners  was  given? 


432 

Oli,  do  they  e'er  tliink  of  the  friends  they  have  left, 

Who  still  o'er  their  absence  are  sighing; 
Can  they  look  down  upon  us,  so  sadly  bereft, 

From  mansions  where  there  is  no  dying? 

What  though,  in  the  beautiful  world  where  they  are, 

Light-wing'd  they  may  ever  be  soaring, 
And  roaming  at  will  o'er  each  radiant  star, 

And  other  new  beauties  exploring — 

What  though  they  now  bask  in  the  glorious  light 

From  the  throne  of  the  Deity  shining, 
Can  they  ever  forget  the  dear  faces,  once  bright, 

And  the  fond  hearts  still  round  them  entwining? 

I  can  but  believe  that  they  sometimes  recall 
The  scenes  of  their  innocent  childhood — 

The  mountain,  the  church,  and  the  cottage  and  all, 
On  the  brink  of  the  stream  near  the  wildwood. 

I  can  but  believe  though  they  strike  the  glad  lyre, 

With  seraphs  rejoicing  above  us, 
That  sometimes  they  sing  a  sweet  song  mid  the  choir, 

Rehearsing  how  deeply  they  love  us. 

Oh,  Heaven  is  nearer  than  many  surmise; 

When  we've  safely  passed  over  Death's  river, 
Its  waves  will  have  washed  the  thick  scales  from  our 
eyes, 

And  we'll  look  on  all  loved  ones  forever. 

Perchance,  could  we  peer  through  the  mystical  veil, 
Which  now  in  its  foldings  hath  bound  us, 

We  might  find  ourselves  nearer  the  friends  we  bewail 
Than  when  erst  they  were  smiling  around  us. 


433 

There  is  something  that  tells  us  down  deep  in  our  hearts 
That  no  link  of  Love's  chain  is  e'er  broken; 

Refined  in  the  fire  from  all  earth's  drossy  parts, 
It  shineth  Eternity's  token. 

How,  then,  can  it  be  that  the  friends  who  have  gone 
Think  no  more  of  the  dear  ones  left  grieving; 

Love  joins  soul  to  soul,  from  the  earth  to  God's  Throne, 
Is  the  star  of  my  spirit's  believing. 


DO  THEY  RETURN? 


Do  the  beloved  dead  return  to  us,  oh,  nevermore! 
Come  not  their  spirits  sometimes  back  from  the  eternal 

shore! 
How  oft  when  in  my  aching  heart  have  sorrow's  waves 

beat  wild, 
Have  I  thought  I  heard  my  mother's  voice  soothing  her 

grieving  child; 

And  then,  again,  my  brother  dear,  the  eldest  of   our 

band, 

Doth  visit  me  when  I  am  sad  from  that  fair  Spirit-land, 
And  wipes  with  softest,  gentlest  touch  the  tear-drops 

from  mine  eyes, 
And  sweetly  murmurs  low  of  joys  that  wait  me  in  the 

skies. 

And  then  a  younger  brother  comes,  with  seraph-harp 

and  voice, 

To  raise  my  sinking  spirit  up  and  make  it  to  rejoice; 
Though  faint  the  sounds  fall  on  mine  ear,  I  catch  the 

loving  words, 
And  my  whole  being  seems  to  soar  upon  the  heavenly 

chords. 


434 

And  then  the  fairest  flower  that  bloom'd  upon  our  house, 
hold  tree, 

A  darling  angel-sister's  song  would  bid  all  sorrow  flee, 

And  waken  my  desponding  thoughts  to  somethingholier, 
higher, 

And  elevate  Faith's  drooping  wings  above  sin's  altar- 
fire. 

Alas!  how  far  from  Spirit-land  must  feel  the  soul  bound 

here, 
That  never  in  the  stilly  hour,  when   anguish  walketh 

near, 
Dost  hush  the  tumult  in  the  breast,  and  breathless  list 

the  while, 
To  hear  the  well-remembered  tones  that  would  its  woes 

beguile. 

Far  more  than  all  the  joys  of  earth  I  count  this  firm 

belief, 

That  the  departed  come  to  us  to  soothe  away  our  grief; 
That  when  our  heartstrings  almost  break,  soft  voices 

from  above 
Breathe    in    our  ears  sweet  seraph-strains,  a  hymning 

"  God  is  Love." 


435 


THE  LAND  OP  THE  FOREVER. 


There's  the  Land  of  the  Forever 

On  Jordan's  further  side, 
Where  mortal  man  may  never 

Within  its  realms  abide. 
Imagination  strives  to  paint 

The  scenes  within  its  walls, 
And  Fancy  soars  with  outstretched  wing 

To  roam  its  princely  Halls. 

In  the  Land  of  the  Forever 

We  query,  Are  there  flowers 
And  birds  and  trees,  too  beautiful 

To  be  compared  to  ours; 
Arc  its  brilliant  skies  more  glorious 

Than  Summer's  sunset  sea; 
And  are  its  hills  and  dales  more  green 

Than  any  earthly  lea? 

Are  beings  that  inhabit  it 

Fairer  than  mortals  deem; 
And  is  the  music  of  their  words 

Sweeter  than  poet's  dream? 
Do  peace  and  love  and  unity 

Encircle  all  in  one; 
And  is  their  spirits'  purity 

Brighter  than  mid-day  sun? 

How  look  its  streets,  all  paved  with  gold, 

Its  walls  of  precious  gems? 
Who  of  our  friends,  soul-free,  are  there, 

Wearing  their  diadems; 


436 

Who  that  we  loved  are  waving  palms 

Before  the  great  "  I  Am;" 
What  songs  of  gladness  do  they  sing, 

Bowing  before  the  Lamb? 

Yain  quest!  the  splendors  of  those  courts 

No  earth-clad  soul  can  ken — 
And  Fancy,  with  her  utmost  wing, 

Availeth  naught  to  men ; 
Fruitless  while  here  to  hope  and  strive 

To  catch  a  glimpse  of  Heaven; 
No  shadow  of  its  glories  yet 

To  mortals  has  been  given. 

Methinks  that  could  we  have  a  view, 

Though  dim  the  vision  were, 
Of  half  the  joys  laid  up  for  them 

Who  yet  shall  enter  there, 
This  earth  would  seem  so  dark,  at  best, 

And  worthless  in  our  sight, 
That  souls  would  too  impatient  wait 

To  climb  the  God-lit  Height. 

Our  mission  here  would  'scape  our  mind, 

Life's  battle  be  unfought — 
Too  eager  for  the  victor's  crown, 

No  victory  be  wrought. 
In  patience  we  must  bear  the  cross, 

In  Faith  must  fight  our  way, 
Ere  we  can  win  the  Promised  Land 

Of  Life's  Eternal  Day. 

Then  the  soft  splendors  of  those  courts 

Shall  cheer  our  spirit-eyes; 
Proportionate  unto  our  cross 

Shall  be  up  There  our  prize; 


437 

To  those  with  whom  earth  darkest  deals 

Shall  Heaven  brighter  be, 
If  they  but  strive  and  trust  and  wait 

For  their  soul's  jubilee. 


THE  FAR  COUNTRY. 


In  a  Country  far,  there  are  joys  untold, 

Nor  bought  with  silver,  nor  bought  with  gold, 

Nor  precious  gems,  like  the  diamond  rare, 

Will  ever  avail  to  bring  us  there — 

'T  is  the  tears  we  shed  in  sorrow  for  sin 

And  the  blood  of  the  Lamb  will  take  us  in. 

In  a  Country  far  I  have  friends  most  dear, 

They  were  chastened  oft  while  they  lingered  here, 

But  the  stripes  were  bathed  with  the  drops  that  fell 

In  penitent  grief  from  the  crystal  well, 

And  cleansed  and  healed  in  the  crimson  tide 

That  flowed  from  a  Savior's  bleeding  side. 

I  long  to  go  to  that  Country  bland — 
Weary  and  worn  I  waiting  stand, 
List'ning  to  catch  from  the  shining  shore 
The  sound  of  the  ferryman's  dipping  oar; 
The  river  is  black  and  the  waves  are  high, 
But  a  Beacon  Star  illumes  the  sky. 

'T  is  the  Star  of  Bethlehem,  ever  in  sight; 
Should  we  raise  our  eyes  in  darkest  night, 
Over  the  river  of  Death  't  will  lead 
Each  mariner  safe,  if  we  give  it  heed; 
And  our  ferriage  o'er  will  cost  us  nought — 
"  For  without  money  and  price  't  was  bought." 


438 


In  a  Country  far,  o'er  the  billowy  surge, 
We  shall  hear  no  more  the  mariner's  dirge, 
Nor  the  solemn  stroke  of  the  splashing  oar, 
For  we  never  shall  cross  the  dark  waves  more — 
The  redeemed  ones'  song  shall  ravish  the  ear, 
And  the  River  of  Life  to  our  eyes  appear. 

In  a  Country  far,  in  visions  by  night, 

I  see  one  watching  to  catch  the  sight 

Of  a  sister  dear,  when  her  feet  shall  press 

The  shining  shore,  in  an  angel-dress — 

And  I  know  't  is  Tie  who  will  grasp  her  hand 

And  welcome  her  first  on  the  golden  strand. 

In  a  Country  far  there  are  others  I  know 

Who  will  greet  her  with  joy  where  the  bright  waters 

flow. 

Over  emerald  glades,  by  meandering  streams, 
Through  amaranth  bowers  they  lead  her  in  dreams, 
And  I  feel  in  my  soul  that  shining  ones  wait 
To  lead  her  with  songs  through  the  wide  pearl  gate. 


BE  STILL,  MY  SOUL. 

Be  still,  my  soul,  and  list, 

The  angels'  whisperings! 
I  taste,  methinks,  their  balmy  breath, 

I  feel  their  spirit  wings, 

Unlike  all  earthly  things! 

Ye  temples,  cease  your  throbs, 
Quiet,  thou  feverish  brain, 

The  wildering  tumult  of  my  thoughts! 
'T  is  a  soft  music  strain 
To  ease  my  sore  heart's  pain. 


439 

Hush!  his  the  voice  I  hear 

The  noble-browed  and  brave; 

He  languished  'neath  a  southern  sky 
And  sank  beneath  the  wave — 
His  early,  tombless  grave! 

Hush,  thou,  my  soul,  again! 
That  sound  is  like  the  tone 

Of  him,  our  fair-haired,  blue-eyed  boy- 
The  patient,  gentle  one, 
Whose  bright  sands  quickly  run. 

Still  hush!  another  sings 
A  song  within  mine  ear; 

'T  is  like  a  song  her  young  lips  sang 
Which  I  was  wont  to  hear, 
Whose  notes  were  very  dear. 

And  yet  another  joins 

The  sweet  angelic  band! 
That  voice  is  like  a  mother's  voice, 

Who  passed  to  Spirit-land 

The  first  of  all  our  band. 


But,  ah!  my  list'ning  soul, 
Clogged  by  this  mold  of  clay! 

How  soon  the  tones  grow  faint  and  far, 
And  seem  to  pass  away, 
Just  like  a  sunset  ray. 

In  vain  thou  tried  to  catch 
The  silvery,  loving  words; 

Although  thou  felt  the  soothing  tones 
Outvied  the  warbling  birds — 
Earth's  sweetest,  finest  chords. 


440 

How  quick,  when  loosed  from  earth, 
My  spirit  shall  aspire 

To  soar  beyond  the  upper  skies, 
And  tune  a  golden  lyre, 
With  that  loved,  kindred  choir. 


THE  HILLS  AND  SEAS. 


Ye  everlasting  hills  of  mammoth  mold, 
Could  ye  but  speak,  what  tales  ye  could  unfold! 
What  histories  since  the  creation's  birth 
Of  men  and  matter  on  the  struggling  earth! 

And  thou,  vast  sea!  where  myriads  find  a  grave, 
Thou  could'st  tell  much  that's  passed  upon  thy  wave; 
Of  many  a  wail  and  agonizing  shriek, 
And  prayer,  since  ages  rolled,  could'st  thou  but  speak. 

But  hills  and  seas  tell  not  within  our  ears 
The  things  they  've  looked  on  during  untold  years, 
Yet  there's  a  language  written  on  each  face 
Which  we  with  mortal  eyes  may  plainly  trace. 

It  speaks  a  power  divine!  a  mighty  God, 
Who  makes  and  rules  creation  with  a  "  nod!" 
Who  cleaves  the  hills  in  twain,  makes  boil  the  deep, 
And  rocks  its  caverns  where  proud  nations  sleep. 

It  speaks  of  One  whose  angry  thunders  roll 
Athwart  the  lurid  sky  from  pole  to  pole; 
Who  shakes  the  earth's  foundations  with  his  breath, 
And  dooms  each  sinful  soul  to  taste  of  death. 

Yet  speaks  it,  too,  the  gentle  power  of  love, 
Wooing  and  winning,  peaceful  as  a  dove; 


441 

Soft  quieting  the  elements  in  strife, 
Restoring  man  repentant  unto  life. 

Oh,  volumes  are  writ  out  in  Nature's  book, 
Upon  the  common  things  we  daily  look: 
A  page  each  spear  of  grass,  each  flower  and  tree, 
Who  reads  or  earth  or  skies,  reads,  God,  of  Thee. 


WHAT  IS  FAME  TO  WOMAN! 

Oh,  what  is  fame  to  woman!  Will  it  still  all  those 
yearnings  of  the  heart,  those  cravings  for  pure  love  from 
noble  souls,  that  it  doth  more  than  willingly  go  farther 
than  half  way  to  meet!  Will  it  unsay  the  words  of 
coldness  and  of  harsh  reproach  uttered  by  him  who 
swore  before  the  altar  matrimonial  to  love  and  cherish 
and  protect  the  fragile,  trusting  one,  who  forsook  all  for 
him  till  death  the  bonds  should  sever !  Will  it  return 
the  child,  exiled  from  home,  to  loving  parents,  brothers, 
sisters  dear,  whose  every  well-remembered  word  of 
kindness  thrills  the  weeping  heart,  now  from  them  cast 
as  if  it  were  a  poisonous  reptile,  .fit  only  for  its  own 
companionship!  Will  it  bring  faith  and  meekness  to  her 
soul  and  help  her  smile  serenely,  'neath  the  sable  wings 
of  sorrow,  at  every  shaft  with  which  dark  death  has 
stilled  the  pulse  and  chilled  the  frame  of  each  and  all 
the  loving  hearts  that  once  around  her  clung,  in  spite  of 
trials  and  adversities!  Will  it  at  last  waft  her  poor, 
tired  soul  to  mansions  in  the  Heavens!  Oh,  what  is  fame 
to  woman! 


442 


LOST   SOULS;    OR,   THE   DRUNKARD'S  DANCE. 


In  the  whirligig  of  time, 
Rushing  on  through  shame  and  crime, 
Hands  besmeared  and  garments  dabbled 
By  the  filth  through  which  we  've  traveled; 
Hastening  to  the  gulf  before  us, 
.Every  jarring  note  in  chorus: 
Riotous  laughter,  loud,  o'erreaching 
Angry  passions  in  their  screeching; 
Drowning  conscience'  timid  whimper, 
Till 't  is  shamed  beyond  a  simper, 
In  a  Babeldom  of  voices 
Which  confusion's  ear  rejoices; 
Elbowing  by  the  way  our  betters, 
Hurrying  on  to  clasp  our  fetters: 
Wild,  delirious,  eyelids  blinking 
From  the  poisons  we  are  drinking; 
While  the  blasting  fumes  and  fire 
Through  our  nostrils  we  respire; 
And  the  craving,  burning  thirst 
Makes  us  drench  in  drams  accurst. 
Whirling,  twirling,  out  of  breath, 
Swirling  in  the  dance  of  death ! 
Shrieking,  howling,  drunken,  grinning, 
Onward  in  our  dizzy  spinning, 
As  we  reel  and  curse  and  wrangle 
In  the  scorpion  folds  that  tangle; 
Till  we  reach  the  nether  goal 
Yawning  for  the  poor,  lost  soul; 
When  the  creaking,  hell-gate  wide 


Opens  for  the  rushing  tide 
Who  the  pandemonium  enter 
Where  the  fiery  billows  center. 
Through  that  hell-gate  never,  never 
To  escape,  while  beats  forever 
The  huge  Pendulum  Supernal 
Keeping  time  to  the  Eternal! 


AUTUMN  WINDS. 

In  the  wailing  winds  of  Autumn, 
With  golden  sandaled  feet, 

A  grieving  for  earth's  sorrows, 
Methinks  the  angels  meet. 

I  know  I  hear  their  tramping 
And  their  pitying  lament, 

Below  the  misty  cloudland, 

For  the  woes  that  sin  hath  sent. 

They  would  weep  away  our  trespass, 
They  would  fain  have  us  forgiven, 

But  the  weeping  of  the  angels 
Will  not  win  our  souls  to  heaven. 

One,  greater,  wept  our  errings, 
More  than  bewailed  our  woes, 

Yet  we,  forgetful,  journey  on, 
Nearing  life's  fitful  close. 

Oh,  the  wailing  winds  of  Autumn, 
Who  can  divine  their  dole! 

Like  jarring  death-bells  ringing  out, 
As  sinks  the  passing  soul! 


444 


THE  LONE  TREE. 
SEEN  IN  THE  STATE  OF  MAINE  IN  1841. 

Here  I  for  ages  long  have  stood, 

Once  the  proud  monarch  of  the  wood; 

But  peoples  came  from  o'er  the  sea 

And  from  my  side  felled  every  tree, 

And  left  me  lone  to  mark  the  years 

Of  rolling  time  and  rolling  spheres, 

And  heed  events  swift  passing  by, 

Some  crowned  with  joy,  some  with  a  sigh. 

The  birds  have  in  my  branches  sung, 

Here  built  their  nests  and  reared  their  young; 

The  squaw's  papoose  my  branching  arm 

Hath  rocked  to  sleep  away  from  harm; 

I've  been  the  tryst  for  man  and  maid, 

Children  have  round  my  body  played; 

I've  seen  the  ground  about  me  red 

Stained  by  the  blood  in  battle  shed. 

The  generations  come  and  go, 

Like  Summer's  heat  and  Winter's  snow: 

The  red  man's  little  birch  canoe 

A  giving  place  to  ship  and  crew; 

The  red  man's  arrow,  scalping  blade, 

To  cannon  ball  and  sword  instead; 

The  red  man's  wigwam,  "pipe  of  peace," 

To  palace-halls  and  war's  surcease; 

His  dusky  bride,  unkempt,  untaught, 

To  faces  fair,  brows  marked  witli  thought; 

His  hunting-grounds  to  towns  and  schools 


445 


Where  lore  in  place  of  nature  rules; 

The  woodman's  ax  has  passed  me  by 

Unharmful,  and  the  whirlwinds  high, 

The  thunders  peal  and  lightning's  glare, 

Have  left  me  still  to  carp  and  care — 

To  listen  to  the  angry  storm, 

As  howls  it  round  my  aged  form; 

To  green  in  Summer's  fervid  heat, 

And  yield  to  man  a  cool  retreat; 

To  wave  in  Winter  branches  bare, 

While  whistles  through  my  limbs  the  air; 

And  to  bow  down  with  heft  of  years, 

My  hoary  head  bleached  with  night's  tears; 

Without  a  friend  or  kin  anear 

To  help  me  pass  a  pleasant  year; 

But  in  reflections  of  the  past 

To  wither  till  I  die  at  last, 

Unless  some  hand  forestalls  the  day, 

And  fells  me  ere  all  strength  decay; 

And  hides  the  spot  on  which  I  fall, 

'Neath  palace,  hut,  or  garden  wall, 

With  none  to  mourn  at  missing  me, 

And  drop  a  tear  for  the  old  tree. 


THE  MOTHER  AND  BABY. 

Another  soul  an  infant  form  has  taken, 

And  come  to  earth  a  mother's  love  to  waken. 

A  matron,  but  one  year  ago  a  bride, 

Is  sitting  now  in  all  a  mother's  pride, 

Fondling  her  baby-boy  with  fond  caresses 

And  thoughts  in  loving  words  she  thus  expresses: 


446 


Sweet  eyes,  so  heavenly  blue,  just  like  thy  father's, 
And  flossy  hair  that  golden  sunbeams  gathers! 
Sweet  rosebud  lips,  and  soft  and  silken  skin, 
And  such  a  pretty,  little,  dimpled  chin! 
Oh,  how  I  love  you,  darling,  pretty  creature, 
Sweet  as  a  cherub's  is  each  tiny  feature. 

Such  chubby  hands  and  chubby  little  feet,  too, 
I  hug  you,  kiss  you,  almost  want  to  eat  you! 
And  now  to  see  my  pretty  baby  laugh 
Is  sweeter  than  the  nectar  angels  quail! 
Although  to  speak  so  is,  I  fear,  transgression, 
But  oh,  I  love  you  so  beyond  expression! 

My  babe!  my  own!  my  precious,  blessed  treasure, 
A  mother's  love  who  but  herself  can  measure! 
I  know  his  father  loves  his  baby-boy, 
I  see  he  smiles  on  him  in  pride  and  joy; 
But  his  eyes  see  not  half  thy  baby  graces, 
That  every  hour  thy  mother  fondly  traces. 

So  sat  a  youthful  mother,  talking,  smiling, 
Fondling  her  baby-boy,  swift  time  beguiling, 
When  o'er  her  spirit  came  a  saddened  thought 
Of  what  with  baby's  future  might  be  fraught, 
And  quick  she  raised  her  heart  to  God  in  Heaven, 
And  prayed  a  blessing  on  the  gift  He'd  given; 

And  thus  from  motion  of  her  lips  I  read: 

"  My  Father,  shield  from  harm  this  precious  head, 

Save  him  from  the  impending  curse  of  sin; 

Now  in  his  infant  heart  let  good  begin, 

And  guard  him  should  he  reach  to  boyhood's  days; 

Teach  him  to  turn  from  all  earth's  slippery  ways; 

And  should  he  ever  climb  to  manhood's  hight, 

Guide  still  his  footsteps  in  the  way  of  right; 

Make  him  a  blessing  to  the  suff'riug  world, 


447 


Bearing  Christ's  banner  o'er  his  brow  unfurled, 

Reaching  a  helping  hand  to  sinful  men, 

Teaching  the  paths  of  love  with  tongue  and  pen; 

Giving  example  of  a  noble  life, 

Soothing  men's  passions,  quelling  war  and  strife; 

Of  lightest  vice,  oh,  let  him  bear  no  stain! 

Or  should  he  slip,  help  him  his  path  regain, 

And  wash  from  him  the  filth  in  Thy  pure  blood, 

And  safer  plant  his  feet  in  Thy  straight  road. 

Dear    Father,  hear  my  prayer!    Earth's   pleasures 

hollow 

Set  his  face  firm  against.     Let  him  ne'er  follow 
In  courses  vain  of  wicked,  thoughtless  men; 
Far  rather  take  him  back  to  Thee  again, 
Now  in  has  infancy  and  guilelessness, 
E'en  though  't  would  break  my  heart  to  no  more 

press 

My  mother-lips  upon  his  precious  face. 
(O  God!  what  e'er  befalls  us  give  us  grace), 
'T  were  better  now  in  grief  to  beat  my  breast 
Than  mourn  my  boy  a  living  man  unblest. 
Dear  Father!  should  life's  rugged  path  he  tread, 
Let  no  sin  heavy  sit  upon  his  head, 
But  walking  in  the  spirit  of  the  Lord, 
Let  angel's  pen  his  worthy  deeds  record; 
So  up  through  manhood  make  my  darling  boy 
Be  then,  as  now,  his  parents'  blessed  joy, 
And  when  his  honored  head  in  death  lies  low 
With  spirit  blest  may  he  to  glory  go: 
And  with  his  parents  in  celestial  clime 
Thank  God  they  erst  had  trod  the  shores  of  time, 
And  mid  the  ransomed  sing  triumphant  song 
In  mansions  where  our  Christ's  redeemed  belong." 


'T  was  thus  a  youthful  mother  earnest  prayed, 
With  face  uplift  to  Heaven,  craving  aid; 


448 

I  pray  God  bent  to  her  His  gracious  ear, 
For  unto  me  that  daughter's  boy  is  dear. 

1871. 


A  MORNING  IN  NOVEMBER,  AFTER  THE  SNOW. 


The  earth  appears  robed  in  a  pure,  bridal  garment, 
And  many  a  leafless  and  snow-covered  spray 

Adds  a  wreath  to  her  brow,  like  the  bridal  adornment, 
That  crowns  the  fair  bride  on  her  glad  wedding  da}". 

Oh,  garment  the  purest,  Oh,  garment  the  whitest, 
That  e'er  below  Heaven  hath  covered  a  breast! 

Methinks  thou  art  fitter  for  seraph  the  brightest, 
Than  this  poor,  fallen  earth  with  its  sin  and  unrest. 

The  angels  looked  down,  Earth,  from  skies  that  glow 
o'er  thee, 

And  blushed  as  they  saw  thee  in  wintry  undress, 
And  flung  thee  a  robe  of  their  own  to  throw  o'er  thee, 

To  veil  from  their  eyes  thy  brown,  stark  nakedness. 


YE  MAY  PART! 

Ye  may  part!  ye  may  part!  in  anger  may  sever, 
But  there  '11  be  a  plaint  that  will  never  be  still; 

Ye  may  part!  ye  may  part!  may  dissever  forever, 
But  a  pang  in  each  breast  will  all  happiness  kill. 

Though  hillside   and  valley,   though   moorland    and 

mountain, 
Though  rivers  and  oceans  the  broad    hemisphere 

through 

Divide  ye,  you'll  find  in  each  heart  lives  a  fountain, 
Will  ever  gush  forth  to  love's  memories  true. 


449 


WRITTEN   AFTER    THE   DEATH    OF   MR.   WIL- 
LIAM CASSIDY,  OF  ALBANY,  EDITOR 
OF  "THE  ARGUS." 

When  God  sees  fit  He  calls  His  children  Home, 
And  in  Death's  awful  presence  lips  are  dumb; 
But  grieving  hearts  will  murmur  "  Why  this  one!" 
Striving  the  while  to  say,  "  Thy  will  be  done." 

"  Thy  will  be  done."    But  there  is  none  to  fill 
His  place  left  vacant  since  his  pulse  is  still; 
With  heart  by  sorrow  touched,  with  talents  rare, 
His  exit  from  us  earth  cannot  repair. 

When  men  in  power,  with  passion  anger-blind, 
Their  minions  sent  with  manacles  to  bind 
The  father  in  our  household;  and  did  bear 
Him  to  an  ocean  isle,  a  prisoner  there, 
For  simply  speaking  truths  a  freeman  might, 
Without  the  least  surpassing  freeman's  right, 
He  lent  us  kindly  aid  in  our  great  need, 
And  proved  to  us  a  noble  friend  in  deed; 
And  for  like  Christian  acts  toward  many  here, 
His  name  will  e'er  be  linked  with  memories  dear. 


450 


YE  ARE  GONE. 


Ye  are  gone!  ye  are  gone 

To  the  Beautiful  Land, 
Mother,  brothers  and  sister, 

An  angel-wing'd  band; 
Ye  have  crossed  the  dark  valley, 

Have  sailed  o'er  death's  flood, 
And  have  entered  the  gates 

Of  the  city  of  God. 

Ye  are  gone!  ye  are  gone, 

With  your  garments  made  white, 
To  the  Beautiful  Land, 

From  our  fond,  longing  sight; 
And  ye  chant  with  the  saints 

The  redeemed  one's  glad  song, 
And  wave  shining  palms 

Mid  the  bright  spirit  throng. 

Ye  are  gone!  ye  arc  gone 

And  are  roaming  at  will, 
Over  emerald  plains, 

Which  the  sweet  dews  distill; 
And  ye  feed  upon  manna 

And  cull  the  fair  flowers 
That  blossom  for  aye 

In  the  Heavenly  bowers. 

Ye  are  gone!  ye  are  gone 

To  your  blissful  estate, 
Where  wit^h  angels  and  saints 

Around  Jesus  ye  wait; 


451 

Where  your  golden  harps'  music 

Fills  the  ambient  air: 
Oh,  there!  my  loved  friends, 

Do  ye  think  of  me  there! 

Pray  wing  a  soft  zephyr 
From  yon  balmy  sphere! 

Waft  on  it  a  whisper 
For  my  soul's  list'ning  ear. 

Tell  me,  wait  ye  my  coming 
By  the  river  that  flows 

Through  the  Beautiful  Land, 

Where  the  weary  repose! 

Oh,  the  Beautiful  Land 

That  I've  thought  of  so  long, 
And  talked  of  and  dreamed  of 

And  wrote  of  in  song! 
Could'st  thou  here  pierce  the  eyes 

Of  our  souls  with  thy  light, 
Would  we  find  thou  wert  ne'er 

Very  far  from  our  sight? 

Oh,  thou  Beautiful  Land! 

Oh,  thou  Beautiful  Land! 
I  have  so  longed  to  see  thee 

I  scarce  could  withstand 
The  wish  Death  would  strip 

The  thick  film  from  my  eyes, 
So  that  I  could  look  in 

Where  the  wing'd  spirit  hies. 

Ye  are  gone!  ye  are  gone 

To  the  Beautiful  Land! 
Do  I  ne'er  feel  the  touch 

Of  a  soft,  spirit-hajnd ! 


452 

Do  I  ne'er  hear  a  voice, 

So  gentle  and  kind 
That  I  think  't  is  the  breath 

Of  the  cool,  Summer  wind! 

Do  I  ne'er  hear  the  stir 

Of  a  footfall  so  still 
That  I'm  racked  with  the  doubt 

Do  ye  come  here  at  will! 
Do  I  ne'er  see  a  shadow 

Of  angels  so  bright, 
That  I  think  't  is  a  sunbeam 

Astray  in  the  night! 

Ye  are  gone!  ye  are  gone 

To  the  Beautiful  Land- 
Mother,  brothers  and  sister, 

An  angel- wing'd  band! 
But  have  ye  not  sometimes, 

When  my  heart  was  sore  tried, 
In  sweet  pity  come  back 

And  sat  down  by  my  side! 

Hath  not  Love  wrought  a  chain, 

Though  unseen  by  our  eyes, 
Linking  soul  unto  soul 

From  the  earth  to  the  skies! 
A  ladder  on  which 

The  freed  spirit  can  stand, 
And  sometimes  return 

From  the  Beautiful  Land! 

Ye  are  gone!  ye  are  gone! 

Does  no  barque  near  the  shore, 
That  I  may  step  in 

And  be  rowed  safely  o'er, 


453 

Where  I'll  look  in  the  face 
Of  the  Lamb  for  us  slain, 

Who  has  passed  on  before  us 
O'er  Jordan's  dark  main!* 

Where  I'll  roam  o'er  the  strand 

With  its  emerald  dyes, 
And  gaze  when  I  wish 

In  your  dear,  loving  eyes! 
Arid  join  in  your  praises, 

With  hand  clasped  in  hand, 
And  part  nevermore 

In  the  Beautiful  Land! 

Oh,  thou  Beautiful  Land! 

I  shall  see  thee  I  know 
When  I've  passed  o'er  the  vale 

Where  the  dark  waters  flow. 
I  shall  raise  my  glad  voice 

With  the  seraphim  band, 
That  chant  the  sweet  notes 

In  the  Beautiful  Land. 

For  Faith  is  the  bulwark 

And  prayer  is  the  stair 
By  which  one  repentant 

Shall  rise  through  the  air; 
And  my  faith  has  been  strong, 

I  shall  reach  the  far  strand, 
By  the  pure,  crystal  sea 

In  the  Beautiful  Land. 


454 


THE  WAY  OF  LIFE. 

When  morning  skies  are  clearest, 
Oft  darkest  cloud  inspherest 
Before  the  setting  sun. 

When  youth  has  prospects  brightest, 
Oft  many  a  sorrow  blightest 
Before  life's  work  is  done. 

We  roam  mid  works  of  beauty 
And  fail  to  do  our  duty 

Till  needful  chast'nings  come, 

In  sorrow  to  remind  us 
Earth's  pleasures  must  not  bind  us 
Upon  our  pathway  home. 


IF  ALL  THE  PRAYERS,  ETC. 

If  all  the  prayers  that  I  have  prayed 

Have  reached  my  Savior's  ear, 
And  all  will  yonder  granted  be 

That  are  not  granted  here, 
I  think  that  I  in  part  divine 

The  joys  my  soul  await, 
When  I  have  fled  the  bounds  of  time 

And  passed  the  pearly  gate. 


455 

"Ask  and  ye  shall  receive,"  such  is 

The  word  our  Lord  hath  said, 
And  earnest  for  some  longed-for  boon 

Each  day  my  heart  hath  plead; 
But  here  the  good  I  so  desire 

He  oft  to  me  denies; 
Oh,  will  he  grant  the  gift  refused 

In  angels'  Paradise! 


BEFORE  MYRA  H 'S  DEATH,  IN  TIME  OF 

FEVER. 

Turn  back!  turn  back  thy  scythe,  O  Death! 
It  seems  not  meet  to  stop  the  breath 
Of  those  so  young,  with  promise  fair! 
Go  turn  thy  steps  some  otherwhere — 
To  older  ones  now  tired  of  life, 
Its  cares,  its  sorrows,  and  its  strife, 
Waiting  with  an  impatient  ear 
Thy  call  to  blissful  rest  to  hear; 
But  leave  to  us  our  glad  and  gay 
And  come  for  them  some  other  day. 

Turn  back!  turn  back  thy  scythe,  O  Death! 
Nor  breathe  around  thy  poisonous  breath! 
There  's  none  anear  we  wish  to  lose, 
None  could  we  pick  if  bid  to  choose. 
In  other  place  some  so  forlorn    . 
Thou  mayest  find,  with  none  to  mourn 
If  thou  should'st  take  them,  but  not  here — 
We  've  none  to  spare!  oh,  come  not  near; 
With  thy  dark  presence  from  us  fly, 
None  with  us  now  would  wish  to  die. 


456 


Turn  back!  turn  back  thy  scythe,  O  Death! 

Haste  from  us  with  thy  blasting  breath. 

Alas!  we  think  we  hear  not  far 

The  rolling  of  thy  dreaded  car, 

And  see  the  flashing  of  thy  blade! 

Must  some  friend  pass  through  Death's  cold  shade! 

Can  no  prayer  stay  thy  onward  course; 

Can  no  words  fright  thy  pallid  horse! 

Take  from  us,  then,  no  tender  flower, 

No  father's  hope  in  life's  staid  hour. 


AFTER  HER  DEATH. 

To  hear  it  said  that  "  Myra's  dead," 
Our  neighbor's  precious  daughter; 

To  pass  so  soon,  ere  verge  of  noon, 
Over  death's  turbid  water! 

So  like  a  dream  the  thought  doth  seem, 

A  troubled  dream  of  sorrow, 
That  from  our  sight  she's  taken  flight, 

Nor  will  return  to-morrow! 

To  friends  so  dear  who  miss  her  here 

This  solace  sweet  is  given: 
Her  spirit  soars  o'er  vernal  shores 

In  blessed  realms  of  Heaven. 

Mid  untold  charms  her  mother's  arms 

In  ecstasy  enfold  her, 
With  angel-throngs  she  sings  sweet  songs, 

Death's  bonds  no  more  can  hold  her. 


457 

Could  she  come  back  along  earth's  track 
And  speak  to  friends  now  weeping, 

Her  gladsome  voice  would  say  "  Rejoice," 
"  I'm  in  my  Savior's  keeping." 

By  her  pale  lips,  since  Death's  eclipse, 
Will  no  more  words  be  spoken, 

But  o'er  her  soul  he's  no  control, 
]STo  link  'twixt  souls  is  broken. 

From  in  the  Book  where  oft  we  look 
We  drink  this  gracious  teaching: 

The  chain  of  love  enwrought  above 
To  earth  from  Heaven  is  reaching. 

So  sometimes  here  she  may  be  near 
Their  hearts  within  them  burning, 

Her  footfalls  still  may  come  at  will 
To  soothe  her  sad  friends'  yearning. 

But  they  will  moan  who  miss  her  gone — 
Bereft  ones  left  behind  her — 

Till  beyond  Time  in  other  Clime 
Their  soaring  spirits  find  her 


I  LOVE  TO  BELIEVE. 


I  love  to  believe  in  the  good  Spirit-land 

That  is  round  and  about  me  and  ever  at  hand, 

So  that  when  I  reach  forth  I  can  touch  with  my  finger 

Some  unseen  loving,  fond  one  that  near  me  doth  linger. 

And  when  I  am  sitting  alone  and  forlorn, 
And  almost  regretting  that  e'er  I  was  born, 


458 

Then  the  glad  thought  uprises,  With  the  spirits  there's 

union; 
That  the  good  with  the  good  spirits  hold  sweet  com- 


And  my  soul  lifts  its  wings,  flings  behind  her  despair, 
Throws  aside  for  a  season  each  cankering  care; 
And  talks  with  the  friends  now  her  Savior  beholding, 
And  feels  their  kind  arms  round  her  spiitft  enfolding. 

Oh,  't  is  blessed,  't  is  sweet,  to  know,  if  not  here, 
Some  one  who  cares  for  thee  is  in  Spirit-land  near, 
Who  sees  thee  and  hears  thee  and  knows  thy  heart's 

bleeding,  . 
And  for  thee  face  to  face  with  thy  Jesus  is  pleading. 

A  pleading  to  wash  from  thy  spirit  its  sin, 
And  that  good  and  good  only  its  folds  shall  let  in; 
When  thou  art  an  hungered  for  His  hand  to  feed  thee, 
When  thou  criest  for  faith  in  His  mercy  to  heed  thee. 

Oh,  comforting  thought!  oh,  most  glorious  theme 
To  speak  of  and  hear  of  and  feel  'Ms  no  dream — 
This  Spirit-land  near  us,  just  hid  from  our  seeing 
By  this  veil  of  frail  flesh  that  gives  form  to  our  being. 

Freed  spirits  of  loved  ones,  kept  so  out  of  sight! 
I  wish  I  could  hear  your  dear  voices  to-night 
In  the  very  same  tones  that  I  heard  ere  you  left  us, 
Ere  God  of  your  dear  earthly  presence  bereft  us. 

I  wish  to  our  eyes  God  would  let  you  appear 
In  forms  like  to  those  that  we  knew  you  in  here; 
And  that  Jesus,  our  Jesus,  our  Savior  so  precious, 
With  His  bright  living  presence  just  once  here  would 
bless  us. 


459 

Yet  I  think  could  I  once  see  Him  smile,  hear  His 

voice, 

My  soul,  too  ecstatic,  would  fail  to  rejoice; 
It  would  so  long  the  bonds  that  here  held  it  to  sever, 
And  till 't  was  released  't  would  be  sighing  forever. 

Dear  Lord!  what  are  others  compared  unto  Thee! 
We  yearn  much  to  see  Thee  as  erst  some  did  see; 
Thou,  the  essence  of  love,  sweetest,  purest,  and  dear- 
est! * 
To  our  hearts  and  our  souls  be  Thou  ever  the  nearest. 

I'M  ALMOST  THERE. 

I'm  almost  There! 
I've  nearly  reached  the  road 
That  leads  me  to  my  Father's  blest  abode. 

I'm  almost  There! 
My  feet  now  press  the  shore 
Of  the  dark  waters  I  shall  soon  pass  o'er. 

I'm  almost  There! 
A  little  longer,  soul, 
And  thou  wilt  rest  thee  in  thy  Heavenly  Goal. 

A  few  days  more ! 
Let  patient  trust  record, 
And  I  shall  see  the  coming  of  the  Lord. 


460 
OH,  IP  FOR  ONLY  ONE  SHORT  HOUR. 

Oh,  if  for  only  one  short  hour 

We  might  beside  our  hearthstone  greet 
The  loved  ones  who  have  passed  away, 

And  hold  with  them  communion  sweet! 
Or  could  we  leave  our  living  clay 

And  join  them  in  yon  blissful  sphere, 
And  there  a  rapturous  converse  hold 

Of  all  that  erst  to  them  was  dear; 
And  could  they  then  permitted  be 

To  breathe  some  words  of  joys  above, 
To  strengthen  our  weak,  wavering  faith 

Till  rest  we  in  that  Land  of  Love; 
And  then  could  we  return  at  will, 

Till  Death  resume  our  human  form, 
Mid  those  to  whom  our  hearts  here  cling, 

What  thrilling  ecstasy  would  warm 

And  shield  our  breasts  'gainst  life's  cold  storm. 

Oh,  if  for  only  one  short  hour! 

An  hour  will  come,  't  will  not.be  short, 
When  we  shall  meet  our  "  lost  and  gone  " — 

Not  "  lost,"  but  in  some  better  port — 
And  then  and  There  we'll  hear  and  see 

And  know  all  that  we  now  desire; 
Unclad  of  earth's  foul  drapery, 

Our  souls,  fleet-wing'd,  may  then  aspire, 
And  not  in  vain,  to  converse  hold 

With  dear  ones  in  a  holier  sphere, 
Nor  will  we  wish  tJien  to  return^ 

To  mingle  with  bereft  ones  here; 
Or  if  we  do,  my  faith  is  strong, 

If  to  our  happiness  't  will  add, 
Our  absence  Christ  will  not  prolong 

From  presences  that  make  us  glad, 

For  Heaven  is  not,  when  souls  are  sad. 


461 
MY  SAVIOR  DEAR. 


My  Savior  dear,  since  "  God  is  love," 
And  Thou  art  one  with  God, 

It  were  not  strange  Thou  earnest  down 
An.l  spilt  for  man  Thy  blood. 

Blind,  erring,  weak,  repentant  man, 
Groping  his  darksome  way ! 

How  canst  Thou  close  Thy  loving  ear 
When  sorrowing  he  doth  pray! 

When  helpless  man  with  hope  looks  up 

To  find  Thy  loving  face, 
How  canst  thou,  Lord,  deny  to  Him 

Thy  free  and  pard'ning  grace! 

When  man  for  man  so  much  will  dare, 

If  love  his  soul  pervade, 
Held  in  Thy  greater  love,  dear  Lord, 

Why  should  he  be  dismayed! 

O  Jesus,  Savior,  loving  One, 
When  my  dark  soul  doth  cry 

To  Thee  unseen  for  living  faith, 
Do  not  the  gift  deny. 

And  when  I  beg  Thy  present  aid 

In  weakness,  sorrow,  care, 
Bow  down  Thy  pitying  ear,  dear  Lord, 

And  grant  my  soulful  prayer. 

Help!  Jesus,  help!  in  my  distress, 

I  lift  my  hands  and  plead, 
Oh,  could  I  but  "  Thy  garments  touch," 

My  heart  would  cease  to  bleed.. 


462 
WHY  MAY  NOT  WOMEN  PREACH! 

How  can  we  let  them  go! 
Do  we  not  see  them,  day  by  day^ 
Frittering  their  life  away, 
And  yet  reach  forth  no  might  of  ours 
To  urge  their  use  of  better  powers 

As"  on  they  go ! 

How  can  we  let  them  go! 
The  young,  the  fair,  the  bright,  the  gay, 
And  older  ones  not  long  to  stay; 
Filled  up  with  cares  and  joys  of  life, 
Quenching  within  the  conscience'  strife 

As  on  they  go! 

How  can  we  let  them  go! 
Our  friends  so  true,  our  friends  so  dear, 
And  others'  friends,  to  them  as  near, 
Without  meet  warning  from  our  tongue, 
E'en  though  our  hearts  are  sorrow-wrung 

As  on  they  go! 

How  can  we  let  them  go! 
Must  women's  lips  no  good  seed  sow 
Outside  the  doors  which  we  look  through! 
Nor  step  beyond  our  walls  to  catch 
Some  dying  souls  within  our  reach 

As  on  they  go! 

How  can  we  let  them  go! 
'T  was  woman  first  and  woman  last 
Before  the  Sepulcher  stood  fast 
Until  the  Savior  bade  them  then 
"  The  Lord  has  risen"  tell  to  men, 

Obeying  so, 


463 


The  blessed  Marys  go, 
The  Lord's  disciples  telling  first 
That  "  Christ  the  bonds  of  death  had  burst,1 
And  then  to  others  whom  they  met — • 
And  still  the  tale  they  're  telling  yet, 
Where  e'er  the  Testament  is  read, 
That  "  Christ  is  risen  from  the  dead.1' 

Let  us  do  so. 

Why  sJiould  we  let  them  go ! 
No  word  hath  Jesus  left  behind 
Tlmt  every  one  of  womankind 
Must  be  a  Martha — Mary's  choice 
He  most  approved  with  gracious  voice: 

So  choose  we,  too. 

Why  should  we  let  them  go! 
Huldah  preached,  and  Miriam  sang 
A  song  that  through  the  wide  world  rang, 
All  unrebuked,  and  to  this  day 
Are  honored  by  all  those  who  pray: 

So  would  we  do. 

Why  should  we  let  them  go! 
Deborah — a  prophetess — 
When  heathen  hosts  did  sore  oppress 
"  Her  people  Israel,"  led  the  van. 
To  battle,  for  there  was  no  man 
In  all  the  tribes  anear  or  far 
Who  dared  to  lead  their  sex  to  war, 

So  lead  she  on. 

Why  should  we  let  them  go! 
If  woman  may  to  conquest  lead 
God's  chosen  people  in  their  need, 
Why  may  she  not  in  public  teach! 


4G4 

To  wand'ring  sinners  kindly  preach, 
In  pulpits  where  men  often  fail 
To  speak  the  word  that  doth  avail 
To  save  a  soul! 

And  we  will  preach ! 
Paul,  the  apostle  and  the  sage, 
The  women  of  the  present  age 
Forbade  not,  but  as  times  were  then,* 
Where  women  were  the  slaves  of  men, 
Uncultured  in  the  wiser  arts, 
Scarce  claiming  souls  and  scarcely  hearts — 
He  rightly  deemed  they  should  not  tell, 
Like  Anna,f  of  Immanuel. 

*  In  Pagan  lauds. 

t  Prophetess  in  the  Temple  at  the  time  of  the  birth  of  Christ. 


WHY  AND  BECAUSE. 


Why  do  I  plain  for  thee,  dear  one, 
When  all  thy  sorrows  now  are  o'er! 

'T  is  that  thou  lovedst  me  as  none 
So  dear  will  ever  love  me  more. 

Thy  love  to  me  was  like  the  sun 

That  breaks  the  gloom  when  tempests  roar, 

And  with  its  brightness  sweetly  thrills 

The  panting  earth  and  plainting  rills. 


Buzz!  buzz!  buzz!  thou  tiny  being! 
What  about  me  art  thou  seeing 
That  offends  thce,  little  lurker! 
Fly  away,  thou  busy  worker! 

Of  thy  sweets  I've  pilfered  none,  sir! 
Nor  thy  Summer  haunts  have  shorn,  sir! 
I  would  ne'er  in  garden  bowers 
Rob  thee  of  the  sweetest  flowers. 

I've  ne'er  been  anear  their  hive,  sir, 
Where  thy  wee  bees  live  and  thrive,  sir; 
Nor  thy  queen  have  I  molested, 
Nor  her  realms  with  ills  infested. 

Fly  away,  then,  lest  I  harm  thce, 
For  thy  buzzing  docs  not  charm  me; 
Go  and  sip  in  weather  sunny 
From  the  flowers  that  give  thee  honey. 

I  no  more  can  risk  thy  stinging, 
From  my  ears  be  quickly  winging 
To  thy  wee  ones,  not  yet  flying — 
For  their  "  bee  bread  "  meal  a  crying. 

Fly  away,  thou  noisy  fellow, 
For  thy  music  is  not  mellow; 
Lest  I  hurt  thy  little  pate,  sir, 
Fly  away,  ere  't  is  too  late,  sir. 

Oh,  I  did  not  mean  to  crush  thee, 
But  to  brush  away  and  hush  thee! 
Have  I  marred  each  tiny  feature, 
Have  I  killed  thee,  little  creature! 


466 

WHEN  HE  COMES. 

Were  our  dear  Jesus  to  appear, 

As  read  we  in  the  Book  most  dear, 

"  Like  as  from  earth  He  now  doth  rise, 

He  shall  descend  before  our  eyes," 

On  whom  would  His  kind  glance  first  fall?— 

On  rich  and  grand  or  poor  and  small, 

On  those  with  intellect  broad  and  deep, 

Or  on  the  ones  in  sorrow's  steep — 

In  lowly  station,  childlike,  dumb, 

When  they  within  the  presence  come 

Of  those  the  gifted  and  the  wise, 

Who  vault  their  knowledge  to  the  skies! 

The  grand  expounder  of  "The  Faith  " 

Will  doubtless  feel  that  right  lie  hath 

To  the  first  notice  of  the  Lord, 

Who'd  taught  the  thousands  from  "  His  Word!' 

Should  not  he  first  be  called  to  meet 

The  Lord  in  air,  and  have  the  seat 

Most  honor'd  by  his  side,  when  He 

Shall  rest  His  feet  on  earthly  lea! 

The  poor  and  ignorant  herd  must  know 

Their  place  before  the  Lord  is  low; 

Their  minds'  capacities  are  small 

And  dull  and  weak — the  unlearn'd  all 

Will  have  a  place  they  can  enjoy 

Just  suited  to  their  minds'  employ 

But,  ah!  me  simple,  dost  bethink 
Those  who  did  most  of  sorrow  drink 
Will  meet  His  loving  gaze  before 
The  king  or  priest  most  learn'd  in  lore; 
For  He  has  said,  "Father  to  Thee 
I  thanks  do  give  that  Thou  for  me 
Hast  from  the  prudent  and  the  wise 
Hidden  these  meanings — dimm'd  their  eyes, 


And  unto  babes  hast  them  revealed;" 
The  humble,  helpless,  sick,  hast  healed; 
And  also  for  Thy  just  decree, 
"Here  many  last,  there  first  shall  be. 


AN  UP  TELEGRAM. 


Ye  Heavens  be  propitious,  send  us  rain 

*To  cool  the  air; 

'T  is  filled  with  fiery  shafts  King  Sol  shoots  on  us 
From  his  lair. 

Methinks  he  sends  his  fiercest  darts  in  haste 

To  conquer  Spring. 
July  is  come  in  May,  and  all  too  soon 

We're  sweltering. 

The  months  are  out  of  tune — all  tangled  up — 

"  Hot  August"  days, 
If  August  comes  again,  belike  will  be 

As  cool  as  Mays — 

As  cool  as  Mays  before  the  "  weather  man  " 

So  mixed  together 
Our  Summer  and  our  Spring,  and  quite  upset 

Our  other  weather. 

Ye  Heavens,  be  propitious;  send  us  rain: 

Be  quick,  or  truly 
The  "  Millerites,"  this  time,  will  have  their  way — 

We'll  burn  up,  surely. 

May  20,  1877. 


438 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

This  day  I  saw  him  titled  President 

Unveil  the  new  bronze  statue  in  the  park, 

In  honor  and  commemoration  of 

Our  poet  Halleck.     T'was  to  me  a  sight 

I  was  unused  to  in  my  country  home, 

And  I  was  thankful  for  such  privilege. 

But  quicker  leapt  my  pulse  with  joy  when  saw 

I  him  with  head  made  hoary  by  the  years, 

And  countenance  thought-marked,  and  kingly  eye, 

Arise  and  speak.     The  noisy  crowd,  sp  dense, 

Chopped  in  my  ears  the  polished  sentences 

Of  this  wise  father  of  our  country's  bards. 

But  when  he  left  the  stand,  so  close  he  pass'd 

I  caught  his  hand — as  other  weak  ones  caught 

Another's — and  I  said,  ' '  I  rather  far 

Shake  hands  with  thee  than  with  a  President — 

A  thousand  times!  oh,  yes,  ten  thousand  'imes, 

"Would  I  prefer  so  could  I  take  my  choice." 

He  stopped,  and  with  a  very  pleasant  smile, 

Grasping  my  hand  with  kindly  clasp,  he  asked 

Me  if  he  knew  me;  and  if  not,  my  name. 

I,  answering,  said,  "  You  do  not  know  me,  sir, 

But  since  my  first  remembrance  I  have  known 

Of  you,  for  I  have  read  your  thoughts  in  books, 

And  loved  them;"  then  my  name  carelessly  gave, 

For  he  would  not  remember  it,  I  thought, 

Nor  ever  after  bring  to  mind  my  face. 

But,  oh,  to  me  it  was  a  holy  touch — 

That  handshake  with  the  poet-god,  and  I 

Shall  not  forget  it  in  the  by-and-by. 

May  15,  1877. 


469 
A  CENTENNIAL  ODE. 

A  hundred  years  ago  was  sown 

A  seed  of  value  rare, 
In  soil  enriched  by  heroes'  blood, 

And  nurtured  by  their  care. 
And  from  that  precious  seed  has  grown 

A  grand,  far-spreading  tree, 
Where  millions,  now,  of  freeborn  men 

Are  holding  jubilee. 

The  blossoms  of  this  fruitful  tree 

Send  forth  a  perfume  sweet, 
And  peoples,  scenting  it  afar, 

Have  come  with  weary  feet 
To  rest  within  its  favoring  shade, 

And  view,  with  wondering  eye, 
Its  rapid  growth — its  happy  realms 

That  in  its  shelter  lie. 

Beneath  its  boughs  they  find  a  home 

Where  Peace  and  Plenty  reign  ; 
Where  education's  richest  lore 

The  poorest  may  obtain. 
And  so  they  learn  to  love  the  soil 

That  healthful  breezes  fan, 
Where  all  are  sovereigns — each  is  peer 

To  every  brother-man. 

And  now  from  Europe,  Asia  far, 

And  from  a  sister  land — 
America — mid  Southern  seas — 

A  treasure-laden  band 
Are  come  to  vie  with  us  in  Art 

And  join  our  jubilee, 
And  taste  the  nectar  of  our  vines, 

Beneath  our  Century  Tree. 


470 


And  here,  beside  our  "  stripes  and  stars," 

Their  pennons  are  unfurled, 
Which  have,  a  score  of  centuries,  waved 

Over  an  older  world. 
The  drapery  floats  in  "  standards"  brave 

Which  gentle  zephyrs  fill  ; 
Speaking,  in  symbols,  gracious  words, 

"To  this  New  World  'Good-Will.'  " 

Hail  ye  !  a  hearty  welcome  then, 

Nations  of  other  clime. 
If  in  our  youth  ye  bear  the  palm, 

In  arts  of  olden-time, 
Ye  still  must  marvel  at  our  strides 

Beneath  our  own  loved  Tree, 
And,  with  us,  honor  those  who  sowed 

The  seed  of  Liberty. 

Ring  out,  then,  ring,  ye  countless  bells  ! 

Ye  heavy  cannon,  roar  ! 
Let  myriad  voices  pecans  shout, 

Swelling  from  shore  to  shore  ; 
Let  every  hearth,  and  every  haunt, 

Roll  forth  the  anthem  grand, 
In  thanks  to  Him  who  guards,  in  love, 

Our  free,  our  happy  land. 


471 
LINES  FOR  THE  »  FOURTH,"- 1876. 

None,  none  who  fought  on  Bunker  Hill, 

At  Trenton,  or  on  Monmouth  plain, 
And  none  who  signed  our  charter  bold, 

In  human  form  with  us  remain  ; 
But  millions  feel  those  spirits  brave 

Down  from  their  heights  have  found  their 

way, 
And  with  us  jubilates  keep 

On  this  our  grand  Centennial  day. 

Loved  Washington  !  the  scene  is  changed 

Since  by  the  tree  in  Cambridge  thou 
Of  our  brave  yeomen  took  command, 

Who  in  the  furrow  left  the  plow  ; 
In  homespun  garb,  untrained  in  war, 

But  girded  with  a  righteous  shield, 
Each  spirit  bold,  and  proud  to  bare 

His  bosom  on  the  bloody  field. 

And  ye  brave  souls  who  dared  to  sign 

The  charter  of  our  Liberty, 
Can  ye  Conceive  this  country  now 

That  bondland  that  ye  sought  to  free  ? 
Did  ye  with  far  prophetic  gaze, 

Through  the  long  vista  of  the  years, 
Behold  the  upgrowth  of  the  seed, 

Sown  by  your  hands  in  blood  and  tears  ? 

Welcome,  ye  heaven-clad  spirits,  then, 

Who  join  us  in  our  jubilee  ; 
You  laid  our  country's  corner-stone, 

And  gave  to  us  our  birthright  free. 
Your  bodies  sleep  amid  the  dust 

On  which  we  tread  our  gladsome  way  ; 
But  well  we  know  your  spirits  keep, 

With  us,  this  grand  centennial  day. 


472 
THE  CRY  FOR  LIBERTY. 

Down  the  long  roll  of  centuries, 

O'er  graves  of  buried  years, 
Has  come  the  cry  for  "  Liberty," 

Through  bondmen's  wail  and  tears. 
Were  our  forefathers  wiser  men 

And  of  a  nobler  mold, 
Than  they  who  fought,  and  bled,  and  died 

Upon  the  ramparts  old, 
That  they  should  plant  a  goodlier  tree 

Within  this  Western  soil, 
Than  e'er  was  in  the  Orient  laid 

By  bondmen's  sweat  and  moil  ? 
Or  is  it  that  a  kinder  God, 

With  a  more  pitying  eye, 
Was  moved  to  mercy's  farthest  verge 

To  heed  the  people's  cry  ? 


A  HYMN  OF  PRAISE. 

We  do  rejoice  and  praise  Thee,  God  ! 

For  'tis  Thy  hand 
Has  led  us  through  a  hundred  years 

To  this  fair  land. 
No  war's  alarms  affright  us  now, 

For  by  Thy  grace 
The  plowshare  and  the  pruning-hook 

The  sword  replace. 
The  school  bells  peal,  and  Sabbath  chimes, 

And  love's  refrain, 
Resound,  in  peace'   melodious  notes 

O'er  our  domain. 


478 


Erst  prairies  vast  the  grains  have  made 

A  waving  field  ; 
Erst  howling  wilds  and  rocky  soil 

Now  blossoms  yield. 
And  towns  and  villages  begirt 

Each  dale  and  hill; 
The  vine-clad  cot  and  mansion  broad 

Our  country  fill. 
The  fiery  horse  with  iron  hoof 

Flies  o'er  our  land. 
With  wafting  sails  our  streams  are  white — 

Our  lakes  are  spanned. 

Our  mountains  yield  their  precious  ore, 

Our  vales  their  gems  ; 
And  Commerce  brings  us  treasures  rare  - 

Peace'  diadems  ! 
Science  and  Art  have  opened  wide 

Their  entrance-door, 
Till  of  their  wealth  each  freeborh  man 

Hath  golden  store. 
And  for  all  this  we  praise  Thee,  God  ! 

For  'tis  thy  hand 
Has  led  us  through  a  hundred  years 

To  this  fair  land. 


474 


WORLD  WONDERS. 
CENTENNIAL  YEAR — 1876. 

Kentucky's  Cave!  Niagara! 

And  -Montmorenci's  Falls! 
Wild  Watkins'  Glen!  with  awe  and  bliss 

Eacli  marvelous  work  enthralls 
The  mind  that  has  the  privilege 

This  glorious  page  to  see 
In  Nature's  Book,  telling  in  part 

God's  Power's  Immensity! 

'T  were  sacrilege  for  one  to  strive, 

With  mortaPs  finite  power, 
To  picture  ye. . .  .Such  gift  divine 

Were  more  than  angel's  dower. 
So  wild!  so  weird!  grand!  beautiful! 

Such  heights  and  depths  sublime! 
Such  shifting  scenes  magnificent, 

God- wrought  through  countless  time! 

Such  rocks,  God-hewn!  ravines,  cascades, 

And  cataracts'  boiling  flood! 
Such  chasms  deep  and  dark  and  dread, 

Where  never  foot  hath  trod! 
Such  caverns  curious  with  their  suites 

Of  roofs  and  floors  and  walls, 
Bedecked  with  forms  grand,  fanciful, 

Furies'  ancestral  halls! 


475 

The  simplest  mind  in  scenes  like  these 

Is  forced  a  power  to  own 
Who  works  with  skill  omnipotent 

Throughout  the  vast  Unknown; 
For  here  the  while  his  soul  is  raised 

Above  the  low  routine, 
Wherein  it  takes  its  daily  rounds, 

And  glimpses  the  Unseen. 

Go  all  the  world,  strike  hands  and  go, 

These  master  works  to  view! 
The  soul  needs  change,  as  flesh  needs  bread, 

As  plants  need  sun  and  dew. 
This  hemisphere  is  dotted  thick 

With  sights  for  wond'ring  eyes, 
Such  visions  rarely  can  be  seen 

Beneath  far,  foreign  skies. 

Mosaics,  sculpture,  carvings  fine, 

And  painting's  highest  art, 
Can  never  move,  like  Nature's  works, 

And  thrill  the  humaft.  heart. 
Our  great  "  Centennial"  marvels  showed 

From  lands  beyond  the  sea; 
But  would  you  view  earth's  grandest  scenes 

Range  o'er  our  country  free. 


476 


FURL  THE  FLAG— 1877. 

The  clouds  are  thick,  the  skies  are  dark, 
The  winds  are  sobbing,  sighing, 

The  tempest  lulls  awhile  its  breath 
For  Liberty  lies  dying 

Toll  the  sad  knell!  furl,  furl  the  flag! 

For  Liberty  is  dead; 
Fold  fr.om  our  sight  forevermore, 

The  "  blue  "  and  "  white  "  and  "  red." 
Let  our  broad  banner  now  be  black, 

That  floats  from  sea  to  sea; 
We  mourn  a  country  brought  to  scorn, 

That  late  was  "  brave  and  free." 

Toll  the  sad  knell!  furl,  furl  the  flag, 

Shred,  trailing  in  the  dust! 
Our  plotting  foes  have  recreant  proved 

Unto  their  sacred  trust 
Which  our  forefathers  left  for  us 

To  die  for  or  to  shield; 
Dishonor  triumphs  in  our  sight 

Upon  their  blood-bought  field. 

Fraud,  treachery  and  trickery, 

Unstinted,  wily,  bold, 
Inclosed  our  sacred  goddess  fast, 

Within  their  vilest  hold. 
O'erwhelmed  she  sank  beneath  their  ire, 

And,  blasted  by  their  breath, 
She  sleeps,  our  Country's  martyr'd  maid, 

Within  the  clasp  of  death. 


477 

Toll  the  sad  knell!  furl,  furl  the  flag! 

Our  first  Centennial  year 
Was  born  in  joy,  but  dies  in  grief, 

O'er  Freedom's  funeral  bier. 
And  each  who  once  was  Freedom's  son 

Must  hide  with  shame  his  face, 
While  nations  proud  are  looking  on, 

And  mock  at  our  disgrace. 

Toll  the  sad  knell!    furl,  furl  the  flag! 

Which  nevermore  may  wave 
Its  "  stars  "  and  "  stripes  "  in  victory 

Above  a  tyrant's  grave. 
Its  "  colors  "  have  been  trampled  low 

By  foul  and  impious  feet; 
Furl  it,  and  shroud  its  tattered  folds 

Within  Death's  winding-sheet. 

So  lay  it  by — a  memory  dear 

Of  happy  days  now  past — 
Of  sunny  years  too  glorious 

And  brightly  sweet  to  last. 
And  on  fair  Freedom's  tomb  we'll  carve, 

For  future  times,  this  line: 
Virtue  and  valor  firm  must  stand, 

Life-guards  round  Freedom's  shrine. 

Toll  the  sad  knell!  furl  the  dear  flag! 

But  lift  unceasing  cries, 
Till  liberty  shall,  phenix-like, 

From  its  lov'd  dust  arise, 
And  plant  her  feet  in  deeper  soil, 

Purged  by  Contrition's  fires — 
A  greater  boon  to  earth  than  when 

Won  by  our  sacred  sires. 

Feb.  20-23. 


478 


CENTRAL  PARK. 

Am  I  in  Paradise!  bright,  happy  realm! 

How  few  the  moments  that  have  wrought  the  change. 

The  skies  are  fleecy  white  and  sapphire  blue; 

The  atmosphere  is  like  a  breath  of  balm; 

The  leaveing  trees  and  flow'ring  shrubs  and  vines, 

And  smooth  green  velvet  lawns  skirt  me  around; 

And  charm  my  brimming  gaze  baldheaded  rocks, 

And  rocks,  with  verdure  crowned,  of  every  shape 

That's  pleasing  to  the  eye;  and  rippling  rills, 

And  trickling  rivulets,  and  waterfalls; 

And  lakes  with  dancing  skiff  and  boats  with  sails, 

Light  curveting  upon  the  gentle  wave: 

And  goldfish  sporting  'neath  the  glassy  face, 

And  the  white  swans,  so  graceful,  floating  o'er 

The  little  ocean,  and  the  duckling  broods, 

And  "  classic"  quacking  geese,  slow  swimming  by; 

And  pretty  singing  birds  that  cleave  the  air; 

And  clean  and  cosy  paths  that  lead  you  on 

To  owlets'  caves,  and  the  brisk  squirrel's  nest, 

And  the  proud,  gorgeous  peacocks'  grassy  glades; 

And  meadow-land  for  herds  and  bleating  flocks, 

And  parks  for  deer,  and  timid  rabbits'  haunts; 

And  little  hills  and  blooming  glebes  and  dells; 

And  lovely  fountains  dashing  feathery  spray; 

And  grottoes  cool,  roofed  with  the  ivy's  blooms: 

And  everything  in  Nature,  Nature's  world 

In  miniature,  surpassing  Nature's  self! 

This  seems  indeed  a  taste  of  Heaven  when 

Compared  with  the  close  city's  dingy  w;alls 

And  filthy  streets  and  noisome  atmosphere, 

And  sounds  uncouth  and  grating  to  the  sense, 

And  sights  that  try  the  soul.    "Oh,  it  were  strange 

If  innocence  and  purity  could  live 


479 

And  thrive,  unstifled  by  the  blasting  breath 
Of  fest'ring  bodies,  and  polluted  minds, 
Reared  in  such  charnel-house — this  city's  mart. 

New  York,  May,  1877. 


LONGFELLOW. 

We  crossed  the  river  Charles,  daughter  and  I, 
And  to  our  minds  recalled  on  passing  by 
His  lines  upon  it.     Then,  to  Cambridge  bound, 
Soon  pressed  our  willing  feet  on  classic  ground, 
And  saw  the  tree  beneath  whose  branches  stood 
An  earnest,  worthy,  solemn  brotherhood 
Of  warriors:  here  our  country's  honored  son 
They  first  acknowledged  chief — our  Washington. 
Then  passed  we  on  to  Harvard's  hallow'd  walls, 
And  loitered  through  her  consecrated  halls, 
Where  students  of  Pierian  waters  quaff; 
And  saw  so  much,  we  disrcmember  half 
Of  the  small  half  we  saw;  and  then  we  stroll'd 
Along  the  pleasant  streets;  then,  making  bold, 
Asked  of  a  stranger,  Tell  us  where  to  find 
Longfellow's  home;  for  we'd  a  goodly  mind 
'To  go  and  view  the  shrine  wherein  he  dwelt 
And  kneel  before  it,  for  our  hearts  did  melt 
Within  us  when  we  found  ourselves  so  near 
The  poet-soul  we  both  did  so  revere. 
The  stranger  kindly  pointed  us  the  way. 
We  only  meant  outside  the  wall  to  stray; 
But  when  we  stood  beside  the  open  gate, 
The  impulse  came — why  should  we  calmly  wait 
Outside  Parnassus!  we  would  venture  more; 
And  though  somewhat  abashed  we  reached  the  door 
And  told  our  errand:   'T  was  to  see  his  face 


480 

And  hear  liis  voice,  so  would  lie  give  us  grace? 

"  Certainly,  bid  them  enter;"  and  we  did,' 

While  our  hearts'  throbbing  scarcely  could  be  hid. 

But  when  we  saw  him  all  our  tremor  still'd, 

As  if  some  sweet  magnetic  power  so  will'd. 

His  pleasant  greeting  and  his  easy  waj^s    " 

Soon  made  us  feel  we'd  known  him  all  our  days. 

He  talked  of  books  and  travels;  said  't  was  here 

Our  Washington  and  family  lived  the  year 

Before  he  girded  on  his  sword  to  fight 

And  win  from  Britain's  hands  our  country's  right. 

lie  showed  us  pictures  he  most  valued  hung 

Upon  the  walls  wherein  he  much  had  sung, 

And  one  so  like  his  book's  fair  frontispiece, 

And  asked  if  he  had  changed  with  Time's  increase; 

And  told  us  tales  of  Browning,  Tennyson, 

With  whom  he  was  familiar;  but  the  sun 

With  fiery  coursers  downward  fled  toward  night, 

And  we  had  trespassed,  with  no  claim  of  right, 

Upon  his  golden  moments,  so  we  said 

We  thanked  him  for  his  kindness,  and  then  bade 

Good-by.     Then  slow  repassed  Parnassian  gate, 

Where  singeth  one  whose  songs  arc  an  estate 

Cambridge  will  hold  her  highest  honor  while 

The  world  is  rolling  and  the  heavens  smile. 

True  poets'  songs  fling  on  the  air  a  wealth  of  fragrant 

breath, 
Sweet  as  the  perfumes   sweetest  roses    yield  when 

crushed  in  death. 

1872 


iff  3 
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